


The Outsiders

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Music, Blow Jobs, Consent Issues, Frottage, Inspired by Music, M/M, Musician Castiel, Musician Dean, POV Dean Winchester, Past Suicide Attempt, Professor Castiel, Tattooed Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1620560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they met, Dean was on stage in a Podunk bar in Nebraska behind a wire-mesh barrier, having beer bottles chucked at his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sinners Like Me

**Author's Note:**

> Otherwise known as the Eric Church tribute. Chapter titles are from album names in chronological order, and sections are specific songs quoted. In other words, I really love this dude and I have a headcanon that if Dean listened to country, this'd be his jam.
> 
> I spent about a two weeks (total time) writing this on and off, and I'm really happy with it. I _might_ expand it in the future, but right now I'm not entirely sure. Have at it.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).

_No I ain't sayin' I'll never die_  
 _but 'til I do I'm on borrowed time_  
 _-“Ain’t Killed me Yet”_

The first time they met, Dean was on stage in a Podunk bar in Nebraska behind a wire-mesh barrier, having beer bottles chucked at his head.

It didn’t help the situation that _that man_ was the one hurling them. Bless the owner for having the common courtesy of installing the barricade. For the past week, _that_ _man_ had been in the crowd during the multiple sets that went on every night, sitting precariously on the edge of his seat, probably wishing he could vacate the area as quickly as humanly possible. But no, he just _sat_ there. And _waited_. Waited until the second he set foot on the stage, the second he hit the second of his five-song set, and then threw the first bottle he could find.

Half the time, they weren’t even _empty_. Growing up in bars across the country, the smell of stale beer had become an… _acquired_ taste. It still didn't mean he was used to it. There were only so many hotel showers and laundromats he could endure before it started to become a nuisance. Sure, it was a common practice –it didn't necessarily mean he _sucked_ , it was all part of the experience. He sings for a crowd of maybe thirty, gets a few beers flung in his direction, and goes back to his hotel with enough money to survive a few days. On his _best_ day.

But this guy. _This guy_ had other intentions. It was like his mission in life was to heckle the ever-loving _shit_ out of him, and he didn't even do it verbally. Dean had been in the state for four days –three were spent dodging any sign of him. Three more, and he would head back to Kansas for the month. Or, wherever he could get a train ticket too. He hadn’t traveled to Tennessee in a while.

Sometime during the fifth night, _he_ showed up again. Dark hair, donned in black suit and tie –overdressed, certainly—, blue eyes obscured by wayfarers –he didn't belong there. Hell, neither he nor any of the other patrons did, but there they were. Listening to him strum his Epiphone and sing about good ol’ boys and their trucks and lost loves. It was absurd, getting caught up in country music. It wasn’t even what he was raised on; the deadbeat he was forced to call his _Father_ thrived on the classics, whenever he had time for it, that was. Somewhere along the road, between the cross-country rail hopping and hitchhiked rides, he must have picked it up. It wasn’t his forte –but it worked.

Still, after six years of playing bars across the country, the passion hadn’t died. As long as _someone_ got something out of his songs, he was perfectly content with mediocre tips and abuse from both patrons and owners alike. It was his life –not working odd jobs in the suburbs, not wasting away his life and lungs in factories, none of that. He wouldn't become what his father had. He was his own man, nothing more.

But then again, maybe he didn't belong there just as much as his taunter did. What gave either of them the right to be there that night? He knew why _he_ was there –he had to make money one way or another just to get by. The other guy probably got off on…what _ever_ he was doing. Which at that moment, appeared to be making extremely inappropriate gestures with his ring finger and the lip of an empty beer bottle. He swore, if he weren’t in a cage, he would have beaten him with his guitar. And _then_ ordered for money for a new one, just out of spite.

It didn't matter, in the end. He accumulated around twenty dollars in tips, less than other nights, but it was enough. Two more days, and he could hitch a ride down south, or anywhere other than that bar. Even Alaska was becoming more appealing; if he could have afforded winter clothes, _maybe_ he would have considered it. So, out of the question. The house band got ready for another singer, this one local to the area, and Dean walked to the small backstage area to pack up his instrument and head back to the hotel room he was setting fire to in his mind. Whatever got him through the night.

“You’re out of tune.”

Squatting in front of the case on the floor, his back straightened at the haggard tone emanating from four feet away, purely out of habit. Muscle memory, he chalked it up to. Whoever it was, what the hell did _he_ know? With a suppressed grunt, he slammed the case closed and made his way to his feet, handle in hand, finding himself face to face with _him_.

The heckler. He was within striking range –all he needed was a reason. “What d’you mean, I’m ‘out of tune?’” he questioned through a growl, green eyes narrowed sharply.

His accuser only cracked a smirk, hands shoved in the pockets of the tan overcoat he had failed to take notice of before. Where had it come from, anyway? Andit was the middle of _July_ –overdressed was an understatement. He might as well been a recruiter. Or someone from the IRS requesting that he fork over his life savings. The latter looked to be more likely. “Your voice. You have no control over the falsetto and you’re overcompensating. Lyrically, you’re not half bad. But you’re to—.”

“What’s your point?” He would have crossed his arms if the case hadn’t have happened to be in existence. Maybe it would’ve smacked him in the process.

The next performer walked past, oblivious to their conversation. Someone was clapping in the distance. “My point is, you have potential, but you’re not using it.” He extended a hand. “Castiel Evans.”

Dean continued to bore holes into his head. Whether he felt defeated or not –he couldn't tell from his rigidly placid face –Castiel lowered his hand and shoved it back into its former pocketed resting place. “So what’s your game, then?” He started for the back door in the corner; Castiel followed close behind, ever the creeper. Was there even a way to get him off his case? “You’ve been here all week jeering me, and then you run off and never show your face. What’s up with that?”

The humidity was climbing high outside in the alley, dry lightning cracking in the sky above. Storms were supposed to roll in later that night, or so said the weather reports earlier in the afternoon. Maybe they would be right this time. “I’ve been making an effort to speak with you,” Castiel started off, nonchalantly trailing behind him out into the street, barely keeping his distance. His motel was half a mile from the bar –maybe he could shake him off in that time. “But you’ve been otherwise occupied on every attempt.”

“Yeah, well, _tough_.” Thunder sounded in the far-off distance. _Maybe_ he should have listened to it as a sign. Streetlamps illuminated their way down the empty street; sporadically, a rusted out truck would pass, paying them no mind. “Didn’t think throwin’ shit at me constituted as getting my attention.”

“It certainly did the trick.” And even without turning around, he _knew_ the man was sneering. “Or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

“Don’t think this really counts as a conversation,” he snorted. “More like you’re following a complete stranger around in the dark. Y’know, people who follow me to my room normally buy me dinner first.”

“There’s a diner about two blocks from here.” His face _flushed_ , nearly tripping over his own foot in shock – where did _that_ come from? “I assume you’re accustomed to late meals?”

He stopped to clear his throat; Castiel watched at his side, ever observant, blue eyes alight even in the dark of night. Yet, there was something _familiar_ about him – he just couldn't put his finger on it. He shook it off. _No, stop staring. You’ll just fall to his level._ Instead, he went on the offensive. “What’s your _deal_?” Castiel remained unfazed, even by the rise in his tone. “Is this your way of tryin’ to get into someone’s pants?”

“It wasn’t my intention,” he shrugged. “Though I can see how it can be constru—.”

“Oh, _bite me_.” Dean turned to make his leave, the presence of the other man still wafting over his shoulder. Yup, he was still there. Looming omnisciently, acting the proverbial lost puppy; he was about to blow a gasket. “Okay, look.” He stopped again, the blinking neon of the diner in sight about a block down. “If you’re gonna _bother_ me, you can at least buy me dinner. Then will you _please_ leave me alone?”

He could have sworn he saw a smirk there. “My pleasure.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

_My mama had a soft spot for a hell raisin' boy_  
 _So she had two more just like him_  
 _It takes an angel to raise a family_  
 _That comes from a long line of sinners like me_  
 _-“Sinners Like Me”_

 

“So you’re a professor?”

It was probably the biggest revelation of the night, right next to the fact that he _wasn’t_ a local. The man wasn’t even from the _Midwest._ Somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind, he was aware he was speaking around a mouthful of cheeseburger, but that was on the backburner. He was more preoccupied with watching the man’s hands, pale fingers tracing the rim of his now-empty plate, drawing absent patterns in the salty remnants of fries that once were. Occasionally, a tinge of color would peak out from underneath the cuff of his white dress shirt, always catching his attention –familiarity _still_ struck him. Where did he _know_ him from?

Castiel nodded, turning his attention from looking out past the windowpane back to Dean’s face. They were the only two in the diner at nearly eleven at night, save for the work staff and three girls in the far off corner, their giggles occasionally making a racket of the place. “I’m a Doctor of Music at UGA.” Dean blinked. “…University of Georgia? Athens?”

Okay, he _knew_ where that was, at least. “Don’t alphabet soup me, man. I don’t know ‘bout schools, that’s my brother’s department.”

“You have a brother?”

“ _Had_.” He finished off the last of his burger, fishing for the last few fries. Castiel stole one with no hesitance. “Might as well be dead to me. All of ‘em.”

Castiel sat back and chewed, folding his arms. “Why would you say a thing like that?” he queried, swallowing before continuing. “I take it you’re not close to your family.”

“Not since I was twenty-two,” he replied under his breath. So _this_ was where his night was going. Talking about his piss-poor excuse of a family with a total stranger whom just an hour before was throwing glass at him. “Year younger than I am. Got top marks on everything, full ride out to some college out west, I don’t know the name. ‘Nyway, he fucked off after our dad croaked and I hit the road. Haven’t looked back since. Now look at me!” He leaned back, patting himself on the chest with a half-forced smile. “I’m doin’ good for livin’ on my own, ain’t I?”

“If you’d call _this_ living,” Castiel snarked. Dean glowered. “What of your mother?”

A twitch ran through his jaw. “Killed. Fire.”

Castiel conceded that conversation –they left it at that. “How long have you been doing this?”

“The bar thing or the running from my past thing? Been in Nebraska for a few days, been hitching rides with strangers for six years.” From the look on his face, he could tell the man was calculating his age. His guess of twenty-eight was accurate; Dean asked for his. “I mean, y’don’t look like you’re over twenty-eight, maybe tw—.”

“Thirty-five,” Castiel tittered. Dean cocked an eyebrow. “You flatter me. I feel much older, most of the time.”

“Being in college’ll do that to you,” Dean laughed. “Doctor? How long did that take?”

“Long enough. Though, I’ve been teaching for almost seven years. Three more and I’ll be tenured.”

“That’s like, you can’t get fired, right?” Sometimes late night television taught him a thing or two. That, and his brother’s incessant ramblings before they cut ties. Maybe he should call him one of those days. Make sure he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.

Castiel nodded, pressing the rim of his glass to his lips to drink. “Though, I’ve been wondering if it’s still worth it to continue, lately.”

“Weather gettin’ to you?”

“No, though it can be a nuisance.” That earned a short laugh from both of them. “The staff are _insistent_ that I conform to a regular teaching style and harshen my grades. Just because they’re hard on their students doesn’t mean _I_ have to be.”

“Sounds like a pain,” was his reply. “Say, why’re you here, anyway?”

“Conference.”

“In the middle of _July_?”

Castiel shook his head with a snort. “I teach a summer semester. I’d rather be here, though. There is only so much of the student body I can handle for a time.”

He snickered. “So what, you come up to the middle of nowhere and decide to pester the first performer you see?”

“You’re _hardly_ a performer.” _Wow, way to hurt my ego_. “Though I’ll admit, you have your strong points. You certainly look the part.” He gestured to Dean’s clothing; the ripped, holey jeans, black shirt, red-plaid flannel covering his arms up to the elbows. “You’re good, but you could be better.”

“Oh, yeah?” He rolled his eyes. “And what d’you suggest I do about it?”

“You could hitch a ride with me. I’m driving back to Georgia tomorrow, if you’re interested. I know you can’t afford it otherwise, but I can give private lessons.”

And if _that_ didn’t sound like the beginning of the worst porno ever, he didn't know _what_ was. “You askin’ me to go home with you?” Dean quirked his lips, waggling his eyebrows in invitation just to irritate the guy. Castiel only shook his head, trying his _damndest_ to not laugh. At least, that was what he thought he was trying to do. Maybe he was constipated.

“Essentially, yes.” Dean fought _hard_ to suppress the heat threatening to blossom on his face. Okay, _maybe_ the guy was attractive, but he wasn’t really his type. And _maybe_ he hadn’t gotten laid since that woman in Tupelo, right before her husband pulled into the drive and he had to take a nose-dive from her second story balcony into the pool. Now that he thought about it, he never did get his watch back. He didn’t have a pool or a wife, did he? “You have every option to decline. It’s just a suggestion.”

“I was actually thinking of headin’ to Tennessee after this, but,” he started to mumble, barely able to meet his gaze. He was _actually_ going to do this. “I guess I could –hitch a ride. I mean—.” He scratched at the back of his head; crap, was he _blushing_? Why was this _bothering_ him so much? “If it’s not a prob—.”

“It’s not a problem.” Dean saw him smile for the most fleeting of seconds before he went for his wallet. The check was sitting on the table –how long had it been there? The waitress retrieved his debit card and went to charge it while they made their way to their feet. “I never got your name, by the way.”

Oh, that was right. “Dean, Dean Winchester.” That time when Castiel outstretched his hand, he shook it, albeit still somewhat reluctantly. What was there to be reluctant _about_? He was about to ride shotgun halfway across country with a guy he barely knew, presumably to live with him. He swore, if he didn't end up dead by the end of the trip, he would be _sorely_ disappointed. He had an episode of CSI with his name written all over it.

“Well, it’s good to meet you, Dean.” They walked to the exit, entering in the night air. A light mist had begun to fall, spray illuminated by the streetlamps overhead. “I’m leaving around eight. Where are you staying?”

Dean thumbed in the direction of his lodgings. “Motel Sunset, ‘bout a block from here. Room sixty-seven.”

“I’ll be by to pick you up, then.” He headed in the direction of his vehicle, and Dean’s jaw nearly snapped from its hinges. Tomorrow, he would get to see it in a better light. For now, he only caught a dimly lit glimpse of the black beauty under a spotlight. An Impala, older model, he wasn’t sure of the year. But it was _gorgeous_.

He was so enamored with _staring_ at it that he barely heard Castiel shouting ‘goodnight’ at him. He waved, returned the sentiment with a “G’night,” and turned back towards the motel, hoping to make it back before the bottom fell out of the sky. The engine died out with the sounds of thunder rolling in; he barely made it under the _awning_ before the wind picked up and rain speckled the pavement, the downpour coming shortly after.

Inside his room, he escaped the storm and leaned his guitar case against the wall by the door, promptly flopping onto the mattress of his single bed and rolling over onto his stomach. He needed a shower and his four hours –but he counted the night as a positive, no matter how _weird_ it had started out. He had near two hundred dollars burning a hole in his wallet, and he didn't even have to spend it on transportation. The thought of it warmed him considerably. He didn't dwell on the reasoning.

Strangely, even after finally settling down an hour later, sleep barely came.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

_Now I’m just a country boy with a guitar_  
 _Lookin’ back down this old road I’ve been travelin’ on_  
 _It was never about tryin’ to be some big star_  
 _For me it’s always been about these songs_  
 _You see they’re my best friends_  
 _They’re the life I live_

_And I hope they put a smile on the face_  
 _Of those that I’ve loved along the way_  
 _-“Those I’ve Loved”_

 

Sunlight was streaming though partially opened blinds by the time he blinked into consciousness. Off on the corner of the motel desk, the red-lit numbers of 7:34 blinked in and out of his vision, looming, silently screaming at him to wake up. Get going. _That guy from the bar will be here in twenty-six minutes. You know, the cute one_? _Nice ass_? Well, he _assumed_ the latter was the case.

Wait, _wait_. He wasn’t awake enough for that line of thinking. _That_ was what woke him up from his delusional stupor –not the air conditioning unit shorting out for the second time since midnight, not the occasional clap of thunder amidst the blinding rain. It was his brain’s inane rambling on about _that_ guy. The weirdly trench coated man he was supposed to be traveling with for the foreseeable future. Nothing about it sounded suspicious at _all_.

Still, he found himself beginning to go through the motions of the morning. Typical bathroom routine –toilet, shower, teeth and a quick shave—followed by rummaging through his duffle for a clean set of jeans, shirt and plaid blue flannel, all before packing the remainder of his things –laptop, chargers, extra shoes –inside. The guitar case was still leaned up against the wall, glaring him down, waiting. The process left him with five minutes to spare, of which Dean spent with his face buried in the pillow – _his_ pillow—trying to convince himself to get up and leave.

On the flip side, at least he didn't have to hitch a ride in abandoned train cars any longer.

Three distinct knocks roused him from any second thoughts he may have been having, effectively shattering the silence of his now-quiet hotel room. Maybe he should leave a note about the air conditioner. They probably already knew about it, anyway; it wouldn't be of any use. “Are you awake?” he heard a voice on the other side of the door, muffled by plywood and the rain.

Another knock. “Yeah, yeah, m’comin’.” _Time to face the music, Dean_. Languidly, he rolled off the bed and trudged across the ragged carpet, trying his _best_ to wake up under the circumstances. He needed coffee. “You better’ve brought bre—.”

His tongue might as well have been hanging out of his mouth once he opened the door, taking in the sight of the man before him. Apparently, dressing as a tax accountant was just his night gig –Castiel stood like his typical lanky self, any semblances of the night prior extinguished. Instead of the suit and tie, he was decked out in faded black, holey jeans and an equally ratty yet _awfully soft_ looking shirt, every square inch of _inked_ skin available for his viewing pleasure.

And he _knew_ those tattoos. The gradations of inks from brilliant reds to celestial blues from wrists to shoulders, the distinctly foreign feel of the designs, every emblem and figure dyed into his pale skin. “No _fuckin_ ’ way.”

The stranger’s fist clenched in the bag he was carrying, his other wrapping protectively around his middle. “Wh—.”

“You’re Jimmy Evans!”

And _there_ it was. He should have recognized him from before –hell, he had almost figured it out from just _glimpsing_ at his wrists last night. But there he was, flesh and bone, standing right in front of him in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska. Jimmy Evans, singer –well, former singer –of Heaven Under Fire. “It’s _Castiel_ Evans, now,” he replied in his best attempt at being stern, but the fear was still there. Something inside Dean deflated. Had he not _intended_ him to know?

“No, no, it’s just…” Nervously he rubbed the back of his neck, fighting off the inevitable heat rising in his cheeks. _Christ_ , he was blushing, wasn't he? Maybe he had a bug. “You’re the reason I got into music in the first place, Mr.—.”

“Don’t call me Mister, please,” Castiel tried to laugh off his embarrassment, patting him on the shoulder. “It makes me feel old. I’m just one of you, now.”

He was vaguely aware that he was sputtering –there was an actual celebrity within touching distance, and it was _him_. He couldn't bring himself to believe it. An angel could descend from the heavens with a blinking neon _sign_ and he _still_ would think it was a lie. Great, now he was going to be awkward every hour of the day. “…So you’re a _teacher_ now?”

“Are you hungry?”

 _What_? “Y-Yeah.”

“I’ll get your stuff, you go check out. We’re on a schedule.”

“Well aren’t you mister organized?” Dean snorted, but ultimately doing as he was told. Card key, cell phone and wallet in hand, he allowed Castiel to take his duffle, case and the pillow atop the bed to his car. That was right, he would be able to see the car today. His heart fluttered in anticipation –an actual _car_. But not just that, the _black beauty_ he had only been able to see under streetlights. Hopefully he could see better in the rain –wait, did the guy even have an _umbrella_? He didn't recall him walking up with one. At least he had the awning –Castiel had nothing.

Within five minutes, he was rushing to join his empty-handed acquaintance alongside what he now identified as a – “1967 Impala, tuxedo black,” Castiel confirmed for him. “From my personal collection. I also own a 1942 Lincoln Continental in burgundy.”

Brushing the water from his now-soaked hair, Dean let out an appreciative whistle. “You gotta be loaded, man. She’s gorgeous!”

“Money does help, yes.” For a brief second, he saw the corner of his lips quirk upward, faintly reminiscent of a smile. It looked good on him, he decided. He should smile more often. “Would you like to go inside?”

He nearly choked on air. Right, the car. _Get in the car, man_. “Y-Yeah, that’d be nice.” _Sheesh, get your head on straight. He’s gonna think you’re weird._

Manually unlocking the drivers-side door, Castiel reached over and unlatched the other, allowing Dean in out of the rain and into the less-humid space that was the Impala. Immaculate couldn't even _begin_ to describe the condition –the factory floor hadn’t even seen it in this condition. Nearly showroom quality, every surface pristinely shined, even down to the steering wheel and gearshift. And there _he_ was, wet clothes and all, probably staining the leather upholstery. His heart sank, anxiety rising at the thought. “You don’t mind?”

“The rain?” Castiel sat back and ran pale fingers through his hair, wiping the excess rain onto his pants legs. The takeout bag was sitting on the center console, unattended. Something reminiscent of sausage biscuits wafted in the air. “She’s seen worse,” he said while stroking the dashboard with something akin to affection. “Someone keyed her on campus last year.”

“You’re _kidding_ ,” he nearly _wheezed_. He didn't know what he was more appalled over –someone keying a car of this stature, or the fact that it was _his_ car.

Castiel shook his head. The rain continued to pour on, pelting the windshield in driving blankets. Out front, he could barely see the road ahead of them. Streams flowed down the street, rushing into storm drains threatening to overflow. “I got you a sausage egg biscuit for now. We’ll stop somewhere around Kansas City for lunch, and make it to Nashville by nightfall.”

He certainly had this all planned out, didn’t he? Gratefully Dean accepted the gesture and ate while Castiel started the engine –he could listen to that purr for _hours_ –and began to pull from the parking lot onto the streets. Silence played in the air – he decided to break it. “You’re not gonna eat?”

“I will,” the man replied, eyes trained on the blurry shape of the road beyond the frantically shifting wipers. “I hate driving in this weather.”

Dean agreed around a mouthful of biscuit, balling up the empty remains once Castiel successfully pulled onto the highway. The rain lessened, thankfully. He could actually hear himself _think_ , for once. With that, the sack became a trash bag resting by his feet; he let Castiel eat in silence, preferring not to distract him any more than the weather already was.

“So where did you go?” Dean asked, the peace of the air grating on his nerves. He wasn’t used to the quiet; he was always on the move, always around noise. This was deafening. Castiel eyed him from the side. “After the break up, no one heard from you again.”

Castiel shrugged, shoulders still tense as ever. He really needed to lighten up. “I didn’t want to be in the business anymore. I grew more and more… frustrated with the label. They threatened to put an end to everything if we didn’t keep with their schedule. Which was punishing in itself. We couldn't do it. _I_ couldn't do it. So Gabriel went to our manager and told him if they didn’t back down, we would quit.”

“That was what…” Dean racked his brain for possible dates –he knew everything about the band, he followed them on tour with his brother one summer, how could he not remember _that_? “… _Ten_ years ago?”

“Going on eleven, yes. I performed while I was a student and a few years after. You must’ve been what, ten?” Dean snorted and attempted a retort, but Castiel shot him down. “Anyway, our manager wouldn’t hear it, so we resigned. The rest of the band…took it better than I did.”

Part of this was starting to make sense. He knew _of_ the breakup, but the circumstances behind it were scattered at best. “Which one of the rumors is true, then?” It was bordering on personal –he barely _knew_ the guy, after all—but he had to ask. He had to _know_. “Did you really go to the psych ward?”

He didn't look as irritated as he expected him to. A man was asking him personal questions about his life; he half anticipated Castiel to stop the car and leave him on the side of the road. But he didn't. He let the conversation continue on, no matter how hard he was white knuckling the steering wheel. “If you don’t wanna tal—.”

“It’s alright,” Castiel replied, unconvincingly. “I had a mental breakdown from the stress afterwards. Everyone was asking questions, the newspapers were on my doorstep at every hour of the day, and I just… couldn’t take it.

“Gabriel and Michael pulled me off a ledge and admitted me to Ridgeview for three months. I never went back to the spotlight, after that. I dropped my stage name and concentrated solely on teaching. No one asks any questions, no one knows who I am, and that’s how I like it.”

Wow. Just… “Wow.” What words were there to say after _that_? Where was he even supposed to look? _At_ him, out the window, what? “So you’re…better now?” _Smooth, Winchester_.

“Have been for a while. I keep myself occupied, for the most part. Teaching is more tiresome than my students realize.”

“So’s that way you drove all the way to _Nebraska_?” Castiel huffed a laugh at the question. “Or else you’re going for a record on mileage.”

“I like it,” Castiel admitted with a shrug. “Growing up, we were always traveling from place to place, so I grew used to it. The first thing I did when Heaven Under Fire started making money was buy her.” He patted the dashboard. “I haven’t regretted it since.”

“Sounds nice.” And it did. Part of him _wished_ he could have grown up in that kind of environment –a family that supported him, not abandoned him at first glance. That actually stuck around instead of hitching the first ride out of town they could find. That wouldn't _leave_ him. He had been alone for so long, he was starting to wonder what it was like to actually have a conversation outside of booking gigs and post-orgasm ramblings. Now that he thought about it, this was probably the first real chat he had had since he left home. If that discussion even _counted_ , in the first place. It was mostly yelling and threatening to torch everything the other owned.

Thinking about it left a bad taste in his mouth. Had it really been that long ago? “What’s wrong?”

“What?” He hadn’t been aware he was drifting off, until he felt Castiel pat his shoulder. “Sorry, I was… thinking. Is this really a good idea? Me…staying with you, n’ all.”

He heard a disgruntled sigh beside him. “Do you really think you’re not worth my time?” Castiel commented, watching him from the corner of his eye. “I saw something in you on stage, something I haven’t seen from anyone in years. You’re different from other performers, Dean. I can see it in you.”

“Oh yeah?” he scoffed, folding his arms. “And what’s that?”

“Hope. Potential. Which is a lot, considering who else is out there right now.”

“Is this supposed to be making me feel better?” He didn't know where his attempt at flattery was going –it was only making him feel more self-conscious. Since when was he worth _anything_ , anyway?

“I was hoping it would.” He could tell Castiel was suppressing some sort of laughter; it came out sounding more like he was choking. “I think you deserve a chance. Probably more than anyone else does.”

Dean huffed. “You’ll regret this, y’know. I fuck up everything I touch in the end.”

Castiel patted him again; a shiver ran to his toes. “I’ll prove you wrong.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

_Get ups, gimmicks, one hit wonders that don't stick._  
 _Pretty boys actin' tough, boy bands, give it up._  
 _And if it looks good on TV, it'll look good on a CD._  
 _Shape it up, trim it down. Who gives a damn ‘bout how it sounds?_  
 _-“Lotta Boot Left to Fill”_

 

Nashville was a mass of flashing neon and taillights by the time they arrived around nine that night. It was everything and nothing like what he had expected. It was _Nashville_ , the mecca of country musicians and artists alike. Anyone who was anyone got their start there, some even met their end. And what was he stuck doing? Letting his new _mentor_ –he figured that was the correct term for it— pay the check in a dinky little diner on the outskirts of the strip before heading back to their motel room for the night.

 _That_ had been an experience in itself. Turned out, “We only have one room available, and it’s got one double bed,” the attendant told Castiel, much to Dean’s utter horror. He hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in years for more than a few hours. This was a whole _night_. And Castiel apparently had _no_ qualms about the issue, almost eagerly accepting the key and paying the deposit all while Dean stared in abject terror by the lobby television set. They had fought the rain there –storms were predicted overnight. Great.

“You really have _no_ problems with this?” he commented absently to the room, his back to his new bedmate –he was a _lot_ of new things, evidently—while he looked through his duffle for a slightly more comfortable pair of pants. Not that he would be wearing them in a few hours, anyway. The room was stifling; Castiel couldn’t get the air to work.

“I don’t see anything wrong with it,” he replied from across the room, banging a fist on the unit in the hopes that _that_ would fix everything. Nothing happened. Only a sputter. “I sleep naked, I hope you don't mind.” Dean’s face flushed every shade of the sunset. Castiel was eyeing him gleefully, a clear smirk on his lips. “I’m _kidding_.”

 _Oh thank God_. The thought brought an even _weirder_ quirk to the man’s lips once he realized he had said it _out loud_. “Though, based on this machinery, I’m starting to think it’s a viable option.”

“Our luck,” Dean conceded. Of course it had to be the hottest night of the summer, and of _course_ he had to be stuck with _him_. Why he was making it so hard on himself, he didn't know. Castiel was just another guy. A reasonably attractive guy, one he would be sharing a _bed_ with, but that was beside the point. He wouldn't blame himself if he woke up with an ex-musician in his arms – he just liked being close to people in his sleep. Anyone could understand that. Why was he making excuses?

_Man up, Winchester._

Castiel commandeered the shower for twenty minutes, time during which Dean spent idly flipping through the limited channels on the television, searching for anything other than local news or weather. Thunder rolled outside; he was starting to become convinced that it was a sign that he should turn back. Or, it would rain every day for the rest of his life. Either one made sense.

Their routine switched off, Dean walking past the freshly showered, half-pajama clad professor into the bathroom where he proceeded to drown his anxieties in the best shower he had ever in his life stepped into. For such a dump, the water pressure was next to divine. He would have stayed and scrubbed his skin raw if abrupt rise in humidity hadn’t ruined his train of thought. Part of him was hoping he wouldn't sweat through the sheets overnight.

Toweling his hair dry and pulling on a pair of sweat pants, –he wasn't even going to bother with a shirt, the temperature barely permitted _pants_ — he made his way back into their room, nearly dropping the towel on his head at the sight on the bed. From photo shoots in the past, he knew Castiel had the entirety of his arms tattooed, along with some portions of his chest nearing his shoulders. But seeing him in his boxers was an entirely different story. Ink stretched down to his legs mid-calf in darker purples and blues, waves upon waves erasing flesh and replacing it with unimaginable color and detail. Up his sides the intricate designs stretched, and from his guestimate, the entirety of his back was covered as well.

Arms resting behind his head, Castiel cast him a curious glance. “You’re staring again.”

An embarrassing flush spread across his chest, and he fought the instinctive response to bury his face in the towel as he looked away. “Sorry, sorry, I just… _Wow_ , man.”

“That’s what people always say.” He patted the empty section of bed to his left, motioning for Dean to sit. He tossed the towel onto the bathroom floor haphazardly and, shutting the light off, dragged his feet towards the bed before flopping onto his back. Still, he caught himself staring, wanting with all his might to admire, to _touch_. “You’re welcome to, in case you were wondering.”

“What, you gonna read my mind now?” Dean snarked, but ultimately conceded. Rolling to his side, he ran calloused fingers across the markings, feeling the faint indents underneath his fingertips. Castiel wasn’t ticklish, he discovered –or, he hid it _very_ well.

“I did some of my studies in New York for a few years. I knew someone who knew someone who could do tebori for a price.” Head tilted to the side, Dean caught his eyes, impossible blue watching his every move with utmost care. “It’s an interesting technique. So much different from American tattooing. Like yours,” Castiel ran his thumb over the encircled star emblazoned into his chest. “Do you have any others?”

Dean shook his head, averting his eyes. Compared to Castiel’s, his was nothing. “It’s a design my family’s used for as long as I can remember. Don’t even know what it means…”

Pressing a palm to the mark, Castiel smiled. “It suits you.”

“Yeah, well…” He turned to roll onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling. “I think yours _suits_ you too.”

That earned a snort form the professor. “Aren’t you clever?” A pat to the thigh. “Get some sleep. We’ll make it to Athens tomorrow if we start early.”

“You don’t wanna stay the day?” Again he rolled over, this time fully; their toes brushed absently. “I mean, it’s _Nashville_! There’s gotta be stuff to do, y’know, the non-touristy kind.”

Castiel sighed and lowered his hands to rest on his stomach. “It’s not that impressive.”

“But _c’mon_ , man!” He sat up, raising his arms to the imagined lights before him. “You were in the biz for a long time, you don’t miss it? I bet you had some wild times, right?”

“’ _This town, she is a temptress. A siren with gold eyes_ ,’” Castiel spoke, and his heart stopped.

 _Those words_. “No fuckin’ way, man.”

“That’s the second time today you’ve said that.”

“You know _that_ song?” Castiel eyed him. “’ _Devil, Devil_?’”

“I didn’t take you for the kind that likes Outlaw.” Castiel propped himself up on one elbow.

“Man, behind you, Eric Church is my man!” He was aware he was practically flailing now, but he didn't care. When it came to music, he could pour his soul out for hours to the first willing victim. Castiel just happened to be within earshot. “I pegged you more for the… Jennings type.”

“You’re assuming I’m old,” his bedmate deadpanned, and he had the brief chance to regret his words before he spoke again. “But yes, I’m more partial to what _your_ generation calls ‘trash.’ But, I’ll make an exception every now and then. Let me guess, you’re more for Florida Georgia Line and Jason Aldean?”

“ _Fuck_ no.” The rapidity in which he spat out the reply astonished him more than it did the other. “I mean, yeah they’re catchy, but—.”

Castiel covered his mouth before he had the chance to finish his statement. “I’m going to teach you everything you need to know, just so you don’t have to listen to that _trash_. Now,” he removed his hand and laid flat, not even bothering to get under the covers, “sleep. We’ll leave in the morning.”

There was no use fighting him about it; it was too late to even consider it. The bedside clock shown nearly midnight. Hopefully, he could get more than four consecutive hours that night. So, with a yawn, Dean shucked his sweatpants and lowered himself to his side, facing towards the window and away from Castiel. “…Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes:
> 
> -[Epiphones](http://www.pmtonline.co.uk/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/1000x1000/5e06319eda06f020e43594a9c230972d/r/i/riviera_wine_red/pmtonline-epiphone-st73362-31.jpg) are very pretty and I want one. They're commonly used in country music, mostly by older musicians.  
> -[Tebori](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irezumi) is a style of Japanese tattooing thats very distinct in style and involves hammering multiple rows of needles into the skin by hand. They're often called body suits. You can actually get tebori tattooing done in NYC and Los Angeles, those being the only cities in the US to have shops.


	2. Carolina

_Psychedelic trip, my stomach flips again and again_   
_I'd love to get my ticket back but I'm locked in_   
_-“Roller Coaster Ride”_

 

Somewhere during the night, he heard the sounds of harsh breathing amidst the dark, dank air of the room, initially passing it off as the obvious –either someone was having a _really_ good dream, or was ignoring basic bedroom etiquette and getting off within three feet of him. Both thoughts made his stomach knot. Both were also extinguished by the feeling of fingers running through his short hair, pushing sweat-matted strands away from his forehead. _He_ was the one hyperventilating. He stirred.

“You tend to cry in your sleep. Is that normal?”

 _Shit_ , that was right. Something about the hours before had opened a wound larger than he had intended –he had begun to dream again. Not the frilly, unimaginative recollections of nights past, but actual _dreams_. Memories of times he could actively repress in his waking hours come back to haunt him in his unconscious. It was his brother again, he remembered. Repetitions of their last day, before he took off. How sick he had gotten off vodka an hour later. How he didn't know what to _do_ with himself afterwards.

Sam was the only person in his life he had left to hold onto him. And he just _left_ without so much as a warning. Leaving him to his own devices in a world where he felt he had no worth. And so he ran.

Curled into a ball on his side of the bed, Dean absently wiped his eyes dry, trying to ignore the fact that he felt another body _behind_ him, arms curled around his waist and pulled close. “About as normal as some stranger groping you when you’re half asleep.”

“You don’t seem to mind.” Which was the truth; the addition of another warm body was doing _wonders_ for his erratic heartbeat, and for once he didn't care who it was. Just as long as he didn't _move_ any time soon. Fingers stroked through his hair again, the action eliciting a soft purr from his throat. “Would you like to talk about it?”

He closed his eyes with a choked sigh. “Not now. Maybe in the morning…”

Warm breath on his nape set his senses alight, a set of lips pressing gently behind his ear. “Do you want me to let go?”

Against his better judgment, he shook his head the best he could. “Feels nice.”

“I probably should’ve asked first, but you sounded miserable.” Unconsciously, he leaned into the fingers carding through his hair, nails scraping every so lightly against his scalp. “When I was anxious, Gabriel used to do the same until I fell asleep.”

“Bet y’had more clothes on than this,” he chuckled, burrowing further into the vice-like hold Castiel had on him. It was stupid; the room was already stifling, the temperature remaining a constant despite the storm outside, yet there he was, letting something infinitely warmer _cuddle_ him. If he were more awake, he might have had a serious issue with everything. Maybe. The longer Castiel touched his hair though, the less likely he had the willpower to chew him out, to explain that _no one_ had permission to touch him like that. But he was doing it anyway.

Strangely, he was okay with it. Maybe it was just him. _Oh, get your mind out of the gutter and go to sleep._

“Dean?”

He grumbled. “Yeah, Cas?”

He felt Castiel rest his head against their now shared pillow, nose pressing into the back of his neck. “Thank you, for coming with me. I’ve been told I come off as too forward, but it’s… nice, to have company.” _To have you_ , the words went unspoken. They had barely known each other for over a _day_. Somewhere, someone should have been shouting that this was moving too fast. Alarm bells should’ve been going off. Baser instincts told him to steal the car and run, to leave him in the dust. Things were changing faster than he could comprehend.

And, he was fine with it. No matter how hard his mind fought to deny it, he _liked_ Castiel. Him and his freaky midnight petting and his rough hands and unbelievably blue eyes that he could swim in for hours. “It’s no big deal,” he yawned, settling his limbs and closing his eyes to the streetlamps outside. With equally chapped fingers, he twined his and Castiel’s together on his stomach, sighing with content. “You’re a cool guy n’ all…” Quiet. “Cas?”

The steady rise and fall of the chest behind him stilled his heart. Castiel was asleep –or rather, conked out mid conversation. Tightening the grip on their hands, Dean made one last shuffle atop the sheets, hooking their legs together, before following him into the abyss of sleep. He didn't dream for the rest of the night.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

_I see you tryin' to hide that fire inside_   
_But your hold me back's almost gone_   
_Yeah it's about time I let cowboy know_   
_That I'mma gonna take you home_   
_-“Keep On”_

 

For the _second_ time in five hours, he was awoken by something that could be construed as disturbing, continuing to add to the list of things that was utterly frustrating to his libido. The first time had been a misunderstanding –the thing poking into his backside was _not_. There was no denying what _that_ was. Castiel nestled closer. “Gee, Cas, is that a snake in your pants or are you just happy to see me?”

“My apologies.” But never once did he motion to leave. “I could go take care of it, but you’re comfortable.” Dean snorted –like he hadn’t heard _that_ one before. “What time is it?”

“Quarter till six.” He made a move to untangle himself from the ever-present death grip Castiel had him in, only ending up pulled impossibly tighter, the man huffing against his ear. “Seriously dude, you gonna do somethin’ ‘bout that?”

“Care to join me?” He felt the smirk first, followed by his free hand wandering across his stomach, coming to rest at the front of his briefs. His face caught fire. _Fucking morning wood._

Inwardly he stifled a gasp when the hand gave a leisurely stroke, just sizing him up. “ _Tell me_ you’re kidding.”

Castiel gave a noncommittal noise. “I was, unless you were thinking of following through.” He didn't give an answer; his heart rate was doing it for him. So what was the big deal? It wasn't like he wasn’t practiced in the artistries of getting off with other men –it was becoming part of the job, now that he thought about it. He’d slept with more men in the past while than women. Maybe his preferences were changing; maybe it was convenience.

But this was different. Because he was supposed to be _living_ with this man, it wasn't some fling where he wouldn't see the person every again. “Wouldn’t that make this,” he gestured to the two of them, nearly choking on his words, “awkward?”

“If you don’t want to, it’s fine, Dean.” He made a lazy effort to shift to his side of the bed, intentionally dragging the pads of his fingers against the bare skin of Dean’s stomach. He practically shivered at the sensation. _Damnit…_ “I highly doubt it will change anything about our relationship. We’ve already woken up in bed together. I think, if you were going to run, you would have done it by now.”

He shrugged –it was the truth. If he _had_ wanted to leave, he could very well have. The keys to the Impala were on the table by the door, he hadn’t unpacked his clothes; it would have taken no effort to just up and go. But he didn't. Even after watching Castiel for years, even after knowing him personally for such a short time, he couldn't just abandon him. Very likely, it would mark up high on his list of regrets. He had Castiel Evans in his grasp –he wasn't letting him go.

Which lead to his next statement. “So lemme get this straight.” With a struggle, he rolled himself onto his opposite side, now facing the man with a wry smile on his lips. “You wanna teach me the art of singing, you want me to live with you, and now,” he touched a finger to Castiel’s exposed collar, “you wanna add fuck-buddy to the list?”

The man was practically _pouting_. Dean had half the mind to drag this out, just to see if he could get him to beg. “We’re both reasonably attractive, Dean. And you said it yourself, you’ve followed me for _years_.”

“That’s a nice ego you got there,” he laughed. “So you really wanna do this?” A nod was his answer. He rolled over onto his back, taking Castiel with him to straddle his waist, hands gripping the sheets nearest his head. “Have at it.”

Castiel gave an experimental roll of his hips, the first brush of their clothed erections forcing a giddy laugh from Dean’s lips. “You’re eager for this,” the musician remarked, fingers mapping the planes of Dean’s torso, every push and shove earning tiny, matching exhales from the two of them. “Is it just because I’m a celebrity?”

He didn't know what to do with his hands, alternating between twisting into the sheets with every slow grind of their hips, to running up dyed skin and hook around his neck. “I’m not a…” a whimper, “groupie.” Castiel kissed and nipped along his jawline. “It’s _you_.”

Abruptly, Castiel stopped his ministrations to stare down at him, lips parted ever so slightly in either arousal or confusion, he couldn't tell which. All he knew was, his hands, formerly pressed into his shoulders, were ripped away and pinned above his head by his wrists, their faces mere inches from one another. “I thought you said we were moving too _fast_.”

A sneer. “Says the one who started humpin’ me first.”

Voice dropped an octave or two, Castiel smirked against his ear. “I should make you eat those words.”

If that didn't get his blood flowing, he didn't know _what_ did. “Show me, _old man_.”

The kiss was everything he expected and even more. It was almost like he was trying to stake a claim on him with every inch of his body, starting with his mouth, teeth nipping the sensitive skin of his lower lip, tongue tracing patterns along his own. And along with their fervent rutting, he was surprised he could even _breathe_. _Especially_ when he lost track of where hands were and felt one shove their underwear down and wrap sharply around their lengths, strokes aided with the precum he was becoming painfully aware of, the evidence of their arousal dripping onto his lower belly.

The pace quickened – if Castiel’s moans were anything to go by, he was close. “Fuck,” he bit, “Cas,” between kisses, struggling to free his hands, to hold on with all his life; he opted for hooking his shins atop Castiel’s, their heels brushing with every shift. “Give it t’me, give it up, c’mon—,” he caught himself pleading before his brain could catch up. He could feel it, that coiling heat, the pressure in his balls—.

Castiel came with little more than a whimper, back taught in a sinuous arch, exhaling into the curve of Dean’s neck as his release fell in stripes across his stomach. He made it a point to watch, finally freeing his hands from the faltering grip they’d been subjected to and bringing one to stroke himself over Castiel’s quickening pace, his own orgasm ripping through him with enough force to make him _scream_.

Their comedown included several levels of stupor; they were _both_ confused, if expressions were anything to go by. Still trying to regulate his breathing, Dean stroked his non-cum soaked hand down Castiel’s bicep, staring stupidly into those cobalt eyes. “So…” Because, what were words after _that_?

Castiel swallowed. “I believe you need a shower,” he stated, making it a point to run his fingers through the mess on his stomach.

He twitched at the touch, sharing the gesture by wiping his dirtied hand across Castiel’s cheek. “You too, dick.”

They just smiled.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

_In guitar town I bought this old Epiphone_   
_Started stringin' chords and words into songs_   
_I've been putting in time on Sixteenth Avenue_   
_Pouring out my heart for tips on a stool_   
_-“What I Almost Was”_

 

The first time he saw them perform live, Dean remembered, was in Charlotte in the summer of 2000. That year, the months blurred together. His father, through some stroke of luck, won about two grand on a scratch off ticket and, instead of spending it on something worthwhile like food or clothing, dragged him and his bother along for a cross-country road trip. He was going on fifteen at the time, Sam bordering fourteen, and both were shoved into the backseat of a run down Camaro while they trekked from Kansas to the golden isles and the emerald shores of the gulf, then to the land of sun and sand in California. All together, he didn't _hate_ the trip, but being cooped up in a car for so many hours nearly bruised his backside.

Sometime in July, they toured all through the southern Appalachia’s, leaving Asheville for a two-day stay in Charlotte, where he and Sam _knew_ they were playing. At the time, Heaven Under Fire were known nationwide for their vocalist slash bassist and equally talented guitarist and drummer, the three forming one of the most prominent groups to come out of the nineties. Sam was the one that got him into them, thinking back –he brought home a cassette someone had lent him nearly five years before, and since then, it had been their _dream_ to see them perform.

They got the chance and they took it. Dear old _dad_ was off doing whatever he did on his ‘day off,’ as he called them, and he and Sam snuck out of their motel and crossed the city to find the box office. Granted, with the time they arrived and the lack of money in their pockets, their seating choice was limited to the back of the hall. Which wasn't the largest to start with; despite their notoriety, they continued to play smaller venues. Of all the things he remembered of that night, he could never recall the name of that year’s tour.

But, it was arguably one of the best days of his life, hands down. Even from the back, he could feel the intensity of the performers. Their drummer, Gabriel, toyed with the crowd during and between songs, while Michael, ever the stern guitarist, preferred to remain stoic, spending most of the time staring down at the distortion pedals or goading the fans in the front row. And then there was Jimmy, the youngest of the Evans clan, singing his heart out while setting the pace for the others to follow.

They were the farthest thing from Country, bordering now what was considered Outlaw; not even the lyrics were remotely suitable for the genre. There were more instrumentals in the recordings, but on stage, is just the three of them, loud as can be. But they still fit, albeit with some scrutiny from other performers. Though they did have their admirers in Nashville, the ones who weren’t afraid to admit they had something different the scene hadn’t had before. Their career ran for years with singles dropping regularly and albums coming every two years and tours in the summers all across the south. And the rest of the nation, if they were lucky.

He never forgot those few hours. He swore with every fiber in his body that he would meet them one day, no matter the cost. They were the first real spark of inspiration he felt –he wanted to have that kind of life. Being admired by fans, being able to do something he loved every day.

Then all hope vanished. Rumors spread about just _why_ they broke up with almost absolutely no word in 2003, the media hounding the members and even the _label_ to figure out what went down. No answers came. His dreams were destroyed with one lone newspaper article. Gradually over the years, interest waned. Occasionally he would pull up a song on his mp3 player and sing his heart out, but that was the most he ever thought about it.

And then God dropped Jimmy –Castiel, his actual name, so he said— in the middle of a bar in Nebraska. The wilted memories of that day alit in his mind once again, and he was thrown back into that day like it was that hot, humid Thursday in July all over again. The location was different, but it felt all the same.

Which was made it all the more _weird_ that he was in the passenger seat of _Castiel Evans_ ’ car, headed to a town he had only visited once with the prospect of being his new live-in student. If not for the occasional twinge in his wrist, he would have expected it to all be a dream. Some perverted fantasy while he slept in another run down hotel. He pinched the bridge of his nose –he wasn't dreaming.

“You’re awake.” And yeah, waking up to _that_ voice would never get old. “You were out for three hours. You didn’t sleep well last night?”

Slowly, Dean peeled his face off the passenger window, wiping away the trail of drool that streamed from his mouth. “I did, I did! I just… It’s been a long time since I’ve actually _slept_ , you know? Before it was traveling and uncertainty and now… It just feels weird, having a plan.”

From his side, he saw Castiel smile, hands no longer white-knuckling the steering wheel. Outside the sky was brilliantly blue and went on for miles among the rows of trees lining the highway. If the temperature weren’t so blazingly hot and the blacktop threatening to scorch anything other than rubber, he would’ve opened the window and waved his arm in the passing wind. “Change is good, though,” Castiel added. Dean stretched his back – the seats weren’t the most comfortable things in the world. “Hopefully I wont be too terrible of a host.”

“You’ll be fine,” Dean replied with all certainty and propped his boot-clad feet up on the dashboard, arms folded behind his head. “Where’re we, anyway?”

“We just left Cartersville. We still have another hour and a half, unless you have any other ideas?”

“Nah.” He closed his eyes to the sound of the engine, content with himself for the time being. Who knew how long that would last? He didn't; he embraced the feeling with all of his heart. “Hey, I saw you perform before. Just the once, but it was _awesome_! Real life changing experience, man.”

“I think you’re the first person to ever say that,” Castiel replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. “I never really met with anyone outside of the label. Gabriel had his fair share of women fawning over him, and Michael was a loner. I had… issues.” He shrugged. “Didn’t really like being around people.”

“Wouldn’t know it from the way you sang.” Now that he mentioned it, he _did_ have some weird quirks. He didn't think he’d seen him sit still for a single moment since they met, actually. His movements were practiced, always in motion. Did he ever relax? “You played like you were possessed, it was crazy!”

“Music gave me something to do. Playing bass wasn’t the first choice of instrument I had, but I kept the beat and composed, so that was what mattered.”

“Hey, you still play?” He didn't even think to ask that before – _did_ he do anything other than teach? Based on the feel of his hands from earlier in the morning, he probably hadn’t _touched_ an instrument in years. Permanently calloused, yet smoothed with age.

Castiel shrugged. “For demonstration purposes only. I teach Applied Bass in the Fall. I barely remember our songs, it’s been so long.”

“Hey.” Dean finally made a move to sit up, setting his feet on the floorboards and pushing lightly at Castiel’s shoulder. “I got a guitar, we should jam sometime! Just for nostalgia’s sake, right?”

“I wouldn't be opposed,” he replied, his voice wavering with insecurity. “It’s been a decade.”

“We’ll go at your pace,” Dean supplied. “You’re the brains behind this, after all.”

They drove in silence save for the engine and the wind whipping past. The monotony gave his mind reprieve, lulling him into a weird sense of security he hadn’t felt in ages. “You’re too willing to go through with this,” Castiel commented, voice breaking through whatever thoughts were racing. “Why did you decide to come with me?”

“…Would you believe I was looking for an out?” Castiel gave him a cursory glance. “Not to be selfish, but… I just needed to get away. I’m tired of living off whatever I can get my hands on, sleeping on beds with _God knows what_ in the sheets, and I haven’t had a decent meal since I left home. And then you waltz into my life with your voice and your promises and your… _everything_. I don’t wanna seem like I’m using you.”

“I’m willing to help you in any way I can,” Castiel spoke with a nod. “You deserve so much more that the life you’ve lived. Trust me.”

They barely spoke for the rest of the trip –most of the remaining hour was spent with the radio playing loud enough to be audible, stuck on some station where the DJ’s preferred to talk rather than put on actual music. Castiel complained that he hated the station, but it was the only one that played what he called the ‘classics,’ or what Dean renamed, ear-bleed material. He didn't recognize any of the artists or the songs, save for the few he’d heard as covers. It might as well have been foreign to him.

By the time they entered the Athens city limits, his back was threatening to seize. Coupled with the eagerness just to _get_ there, he was turning into a jittery mess, to which Castiel eyed with great amusement. Another five minutes of driving through a rather plush part of town, they arrived in front of a quaint white-bricked home, pitched roof, chimney, and even a decorative mailbox with caricatures of bees along the post. There was no denying it, he imagined…flashier. Not this. Not a two story home in-town. But as Castiel told him, it was only a few minutes drive from campus, so it made sense.

The garage fit two cars perfectly; the other inhabitant was a brilliantly deep-red Continental, not at all like he pictured. Paint was chipping in places, the back seats needed to be replaced, and the engine was missing. “Project?” Dean asked absently, removing both his duffle and Castiel’s suitcase from the trunk, closing it with a thud and rolling the latter towards the man standing at the front end of the maroon behemoth.

Castiel took the case by the handle, eyeing the car curiously before walking towards the interior entrance. He pressed the red button on the wall, the automatic garage door closing behind them. “I’m having trouble finding an engine block. I didn’t think it would be that hard, but maybe I’m being too particular.”

“She’s a beauty though. Both of ‘em.” He saw Castiel shrug before unlocking the door. They walked directly into the laundry room and then to the main hall, decorated in various paintings and framed records, some with his band’s name, others featuring more obscure titles. A stairwell led to the second floor and presumably whatever bedrooms were there; the kitchen was beyond the hall, and next to the stairs was a highly decorative living room. “Dude, you live in a _showroom_ ,” Dean stated, clearly astounded. Never had he seen a house so _meticulous_ before. He might as well have had ‘don't touch’ printed all over the walls. “How often are you even here?”

The professor picked up his case by the handle and, slipping his tennis shoes off at the front door to their left, headed up the stairs; Dean followed, as was probably expected. “I’m mostly here to sleep except on weekends. I spend a lot of time in my office grading papers.” He stopped in front of two opposite doors, opening one and allowing Dean to walk in first. A guest room, obviously; the white-sheeted bed and dresser were the only pieces of furniture there, that and the flat screen television mounted on the wall adjacent to the window. “You’re welcome to stay here, unless you would prefer my company instead.”

If he could stop himself from burning bright red, he would have turned to face Castiel. “Maybe I’ll use both,” he said while casting a glance over his shoulder, giving him a wink that made the man shake his head with a laugh. He threw his bag on the bed along with his pillow and placed the guitar case against the wall, then turning to face Castiel again. “So, how ‘bout a tour?”

Castiel took his time showing Dean around the home, just large enough for one to two people to live in peace. Records lined the walls of majority of the rooms, along with the occasional rumpled poster he’d had framed. The basement was what held his attention the most, though – “Dude, professional _studio_?!” Instruments hung on the walls away from the drum set, four guitars –one acoustic—, three basses, and some weird-sounding contraption called a guitjo. Some were more dusty than others.

“I haven’t been down here in a while.” Pale fingers trailed across the face of a white bass in tenderness; he found himself transfixed on just _how_ he touched. Much different than how he touched anything else—there was affection there, nostalgia. Love. “Maybe I’ll have more use for it now.”

The smile he cast Dean sent warmth through him to his toes; he turned away in abrupt shyness. Why, he didn't know. “It’s almost noon, would you like lunch?”

There was no way he could disagree with that.

 

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_So tomorrow I'm takin’ me fishin’, Hang a sign on the door of my life_   
_Tell the world that I’ve gone missin’, An’ I won’t be back for a while_   
_I’m so tired of only wishin’ I could leave my troubles behind_   
_I wanna be front porch rockin’ with a big sun droppin’ in a blue sky_   
_Kick back an’ get high on the livin’ part of life_   
_-“Livin’ Part of Life”_

 

Castiel had a very nice backyard –and not just physically. All of the houses in the neighborhood had at least an acre of green space surrounded by white-painted fencing, maybe with a tree or two thrown in. His, as it turned out, was decorated with pink and white azaleas and knockout roses in the back corners, and even an orange tree on the left side. Two ornate metal benches sat around a small pond and water feature where three koi swam, facing the waterfall and occasionally circling the walls.

It was all very peaceful, if not with perfectionistic undertones. For someone who spent most of the time at school, he really did take good care of his garden.

They were both seated in the grass by the pond, Castiel now donning shorts and a t-shirt with his fingers drawing lazy patterns above the koi’s heads. He still found himself with the urge to run his hands along those tattoos, every square inch of them –how could someone _not_? “When d’you start teaching again?” he asked, scratching at his ankle below the hem of his jeans. He was pretty sure an ant bit it earlier.

“What? Oh—,” Castiel, concentration broken, turned his head to Dean. “Monday. You’re welcome to come with me. I only have one class on Monday and Wednesday mornings, but it’s two hours long. It’s fairly boring during the summer.”

“I wanna see how you work,” Dean grinned, dropping onto his back and leaning up on his elbows. “Might be cool, seeing the master and his entourage.”

Castiel chuckled. “You flatter me, Dean. It’s really not much.”

Fully lowering himself into the grass, he chose to watch the blue sky, beginning to fade into deeper shades with the setting sun. A lone cloud wafted past. “Hey, that pill you took earlier…?” He turned his head, regarding Castiel’s hands again, stroking through the water with practiced ease. “I know it’s not any of my business, but…”

“It’s quite alright,” Castiel sighed. “I’ve had major depressive disorder since I was a child. I’ve found between medication and projects, if I keep busy, I can function. I’ve never really had anyone to… talk to about it.” He cast his eyes towards his feet. “That’s why I teach summer classes. I don’t think I could stand sitting still for three months.” The end of his sentence came out as a forced laugh.

Dean sat up and patted his shoulder, giving him the smallest of smiles –and he could have _sworn_ Castiel leaned closer, not just on instinct. Maybe from a need to be closer. He needed it too, but he refused to act on it. Not then, anyway. He didn't want to seem like he was _pitying_ him, but the gesture spoke the words that he couldn’t. _I’m here for you_.

The one thing Castiel _did_ do, though, was cover his hand with his own, linking their fingers together. “I like having you here, Dean,” he admitted, gazing back at his fish. “I feel… calmer, with you.”

What was he supposed to say to _that_? No one had ever outright admitted that to him, that they liked him being in his presence. That he made them feel _better_. He didn't deserve such praise –what was he worth, anyway? Certainly not this. Certainly not like he was _needed_. Maybe this was moving too fast. Yet, he found himself clutching his hand tighter, just as desperate for the contact, however small it was.

Hands clasped in the grass, neither bothered to move until the moon began to rise.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

_Regret's been know to give a man a beatin'_   
_But I ain't in the mood for fightin' back this evenin'_   
_-“The Hard Way”_

One of the things he began to pick up on later that night was that Castiel, ever the busybody while awake, rarely moved in his sleep. Every with Dean at his back, he never once shifted, save for whenever he held him closer, arms slung low across his waist, fingers dancing lightly over tattooed skin on occasion. He always slept better with someone touching him, Castiel told him before his consciousness dropped off the face of the earth.

Dean just wished _he_ could do the same. Normally, he’d be able to pass out once he hit the sheets, but not that night. Maybe it was the stillness of the room, maybe it was just being in a new environment. Even the smell of his shampoo –some sort of blueberry pomegranate, from what he spied in the shower earlier – couldn’t lull him to sleep. Instead, he occupied himself with occasionally toying with the curls of hair at Castiel’s neck when he momentarily gave up attempting to nod off, only to try again five minutes later.

Several thoughts raced through his mind the longer he sat, each time his insecurities revolving in perfect circles, one after another. _What am I doing here_? _Why am I here in the first place_? _What did I do to deserve this_? _To deserve him_? _I could leave right now, I barely even know the guy. Why don’t I_? And finally, _what would Sam say_? Somehow, _somehow_ , it always went back to his brother. When did it ever not? During moments of peace, _he_ decided to rear his head into his memories. Never giving him a minute of peace and quiet, just as he did in person.

They hadn’t talked in nearly a decade –what was he even _doing_ now? Shouldn't he have graduated by now? If he were in a better mood, he might have half the mind to call him; not to apologize, but just to see how things were going. If he was a fancy shmancy lawyer yet, or if that ship sank long ago.

Whatever. It didn't matter, and most likely in the morning he would forget it even crossed his mind. There were things to do tomorrow – they had a schedule planned, one he wasn't willing to miss. Hell, if he didn't know any better, it sounded like a date. Not that he didn’t mind. He was actually looking forward to it.

And in order to actually _go_ , he needed to sleep. Glancing at the clock beyond Castiel’s head –12:59, the glowing red lights blinked at him—he closed his eyes to the world and, with a final, albeit shaking sigh, he slept.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

_That man's dangerous as hell, a threat to himself_   
_If he got out, there'd be hell to pay_   
_-“Dark Side”_

 

The campus was _sprawling_ , that much he knew –after walking for nearly an hour around the grounds, everything started looking the same. “How do you even know where you parked your car?” Dean asked absently at one point, hands shoved deep in his jean pockets while marveling at the sights. Barely any students were found wandering the campus, on the fact that for _one_ , it was Sunday, and two, who in their right mind actually went to school during the _summer_? Unless they were crazy desperate to graduate or they had no intentions of going back home to their families, he had absolutely no idea why people bothered to stay.

“I got lost a few times,” Castiel replied, personalized coffee thermos pressed to his lips in one hand, the other holding a briefcase. After having a late breakfast, they were on their way to his office; he was going to read over assignments and post grades. ‘You could stay home, you don’t have to come with me,’ he had offered, and Dean had felt himself flush because of the _wordage_ he used. Home. The idea was foreign to him. He never grew up in a stable environment or a house he could actually _call_ a home. Now Castiel was referring to something that could very well be both of theirs. It felt wrong; he wanted it more than anything.

“Bet it took you years to find out where you were goin’,” Dean stated, playfully nudging him with his elbow. The corner of Castiel’s lips curved up; that was enough for him. “So where’re _we_ going?”

His office, after locating the building and ascending several floors to nearly the roof, was the exact opposite of his sterile home environment. Messy, papers strewn everywhere, trash can full of water bottles. The wooden shelving units on the walls were lined with textbooks leaning practically sideways, miniature animals posing as ineffective bookends. An Angel was practically smashed into a corner with a cat upside-down nearby. “I haven’t been back in a week. I was in a hurry to leave, so I didn’t get to clean,” Castiel spoke, setting his briefcase atop a barstool near the window wall, pulling the blinds open.

Dean could see the entire campus through the glass, along with Athens in the distance amongst the tree-lined streets and forests. Outside, the sky went on for miles, the moon still hanging lazily in the sky, refusing to fade from sight. A plane left contrails towards the west, wind whipping apart the streams effortlessly. “I think you got the best one,” Dean commented, standing before the window, refusing to look straight down. Just the thought gave him vertigo. “How d’you not just blow off work with a view like this?”

“Papers take up most of my time,” Castiel told him, collapsing into his rolling desk chair and sliding back a few inches. “You wouldn’t _believe_ how many people bullshit assignments hours before they’re due.”

He couldn't help it; he actually _snorted_ , just from hearing the man cuss. He didn't look the type. “What’s the worst one someone gave you?”

“This one man,” Castiel began, turning towards his laptop and flipping the screen open, “accidently uploaded photos of his family’s vacation.” Dean hissed in sympathy. “Nudist vacation.”

“That’s even _worse_!”

“I still have nightmares.” He visibly shuddered. “He _profusely_ apologized in person afterwards, and submitted his actual paper. Which wasn’t any better, I might add.”

“Sounds like he just have a big fat sucky day,” Dean replied in amusement and proceeded to round the office again while Castiel presumably checked his email and whatever files had been turned in. The bookshelves were bothering him; with sure hands, he eased the toppled row of books on the top shelf back upright, jamming a taller one into the side to keep them still. The Angel and cat figurines freed, he placed them side-by-side away from their former prison. “Say, y’ever fuck someone in here?”

Castiel, formerly scrawling a note to himself on a legal pad, nearly chucked both the pen and paper at his head. “ _Dean_!” he wheezed, looking just as panicked as he expected. “You can’t just _ask_ that!”

“Why not?” Dean shrugged, looking about the room. “I don’t see anyone else here. So tell me, Cas,” hands planted squarely on the edge of the desk, Dean leaned over towards Castiel, their faced nearly inches apart. Castiel swallowed visibly. “Y’ever tango with anyone? Any nice professors come your way?”

The wink he gave had Castiel red with embarrassment. “No,” he exhaled cautiously, shifting further back into his seat. “T-Though there was this student last semester. Meg was her name. She wanted to take me back to her apartment and ‘move some furniture around,’ her words, not mine. She was failing the class, so she was trying to bump her grades up. Either way, I told her no. It’s against policy, and I wasn’t interested.”

Dean let out a whistle. “I can see where she’d be interested though.” He chose to make an empty portion of Castiel’s desk his temporary seat, crossing an ankle over his knee. “I take it she didn’t know you’re batting for the other team?”

Castiel, surprisingly, shook his head. “It’s not something you tell here. Students have more liberty with what they can disclose. Faculty… not so much.” A shrug. “My sexuality’s never been a popular subject among anyone. Some people know on instinct, some don't. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

It made sense –from what he understood of the south, the people weren’t exactly the friendliest folk when it came to abnormal sexual practices. Maybe it was the same even in the metropolitan areas. Or, Castiel was incredibly shy. He voted the latter. Either way, no one suspected a thing –he wouldn't have, if it weren’t for two days ago. “You ever thought about it, though?”

Castiel made a face. “What, having sex in my office?” Dean nodded with a cocky grin. “Are you propositioning me?”

“If that’s a thing you’re into,” he sneered. “But, if you’re too busy—.”

“I’d like to finish my work for the day.” Castiel turned towards his screen; Dean visibly deflated. That worked _well_. “Another time, though. Feel free to clean, if you wish. Seems everyone’s slacking off this weekend, I only have four submissions.”

He could deal with that; at least it would bide his time. He occupied himself with arranging the bookshelf mostly, humming absently while Castiel stared blankly at whatever was on his laptop, brow furrowed in either confusion or disgust. The man probably wasn’t the nicest grader on the planet, he figured. Or else he had some incredibly stupid people in his class. Within thirty minutes, after having taken breaks to skim through particularly interesting additions to his disorganized book collection, Dean finished what he deemed a proper arrangement, careful to not disrupt the order. The second, across the room, was his next target. At least that one was in better shape.

“You would make a good secretary,” Castiel broke the silence, stretching his arms high above his head before returning to his former commitments. Dean cocked an eyebrow. Three Bibles lined the bottommost shelf, interspersed within strange textbooks on natural sciences and literature techniques. Hobbies? “I bet you would look good in a suit.”

“I don’t look good now?” Dean chided, removing the oldest looking of the Bibles and, seated on the carpet, choosing to flip through the first few pages. Several names and dates were scrawled on the interior cover, presumably all older family members, most bearing the Evans and Novak names. Family Bible, then. “What’s with the artifacts?”

“Those?” Castiel looked in his direction, where he was holding up the worn leather book. “Heirloom. My mother gave that to me before she passed when I was a child. The others are my brother’s copies, they had no use for them.” Back to the laptop. “I spend most of my time on campus, so I keep all my books here. I should probably take that one home eventually.” He gave a reserved sigh.

He went back to organizing, leaving the oldest book atop his knee until he was sure everything was straight at wouldn't topple over if he left them unattended. By that time, Castiel had finally finished staring blindly into the light, shutting the contraption and slumping back, feet thumping on the floor. “What is so _hard_ about twentieth century Jazz that people don’t _comprehend_?”

“Maybe the _Jazz_ part,” Dean shrugged with a chuckle. Castiel chucked a pen in his direction, barely missing his ear. “Hey! I never went to no fancy shmancy university, I wouldn't know!”

Castiel cocked an eyebrow. “Have you ever considered it?”

“Not really.” He turned back to him, hands in his pockets and eyes towards the skyline. “I never had time for school. Spent most of my time taking care of my brother while our dad did God knows what with his time, and I dropped outta high school. Went back for my GED, lotta good that did me.”

“I bet you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.” The look Castiel was giving him was somewhere between scrutiny and confusion. “Is it a common trait of yours to belittle yourself?”

A huff. “That’s just what I do.”

Castiel sat back and rotated towards where Dean now stood near the window, arms relaxed on the armrests of his chair. “…You don’t think you deserve kindness from others.” He didn't bother to reply – Castiel pretty much hit the nail on the head. “You talk yourself down because you think of yourself as inferior, that you’re going through the motions. Don’t you?” He turned away. Castiel, rising to cross the room, placed both palms to his cheeks, rough fingers stroking gentle paths down the burgeoning crows feet at the corners of his eyes.

His hands itched to push away the fingers that caressed him, that treated him with _care_. His heart was saying otherwise. He didn't even _know_ Castiel personally, and yet he was… All of his life, he expected the man to be a prude. Dickish, even. But he was just another man, a man that touched him like no one had –like he was precious. Loved. “You shouldn't—.”

“You would prefer if this didn’t mean anything.” Castiel cocked his head to an angle, confusion furrowing his brow. Dean refused to look at him, eyes settling on a stray paper on the floor. “Dean, look at me.”

Out of habit, he followed the order; jaw set, eyes as hard as he could muster. His hands shook against his will. “It doesn’t mean anything, Cas. I don’t mean anything to you, you don’t mean anything to me. This is…” Dear _God_ , what was he supposed to _do_? To _say_? If he knew the land, if he had a mode of transportation, he would’ve left that office as fast as he could. Everything felt stiff, walls feeling ten times smaller than the last he saw them. Castiel’s hands slipped to clutch his shoulders, some sort of worry in his eyes. He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't _breathe_.

“Dean?”

…

“ _Dean_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:
> 
> -I'm taking liberties with the UGA campus because I don't attend there, so I have no idea where anything is. Though I have been to the Ben & Jerry's right outside the main gate.  
> -[Dobro's](http://images.guitarcenter.com/products/optionLarge/Dobro/DV016_Jpg_Large_514374.008_vintage_brown_R.jpg) are a type of lap/steel guitar that's moderately used in country music today.  
> -Additionally, Guitjo's are very rarely used in modern country music, with artists like Taylor Swift, Clint Black and Eric Church using them. They're six string guitars that sound like banjos, hence the name.


	3. Chief

_Always thought this heart was made of steel and bulletproof,_   
_But the memory of her taillights fading breaks it right in two_   
_-“Jack Daniels”_

 

Whatever he was laying on was killing his back _considerably_. Not to mention the incessant ache in his temple. Now that he thought about it, everything felt on edge; his arms tingled to the tips of his fingers, legs unwilling to move on their own accord. The lights of wherever he was sprawled out were shut off, no light streaming in from the windows.

 _Right_ , the office. Opening his eyes, he saw he was still there, lying in the middle of the floor, Castiel kneeling next to him and fanning him with a thin paperback. “You’re awake,” he heard him let out a pained exhale, book set on the floor near his arm. With still-jittery fingers, he reached up to touch the source of his ache, pulling away at the liquid touch he found there. _Blood_. Great, he was bleeding.

After a short movement that involved Castiel walking to the small water cooler in the corner –when did that get there? –and handing him a full plastic cup, he sat up, wiping away the fresh remnants from his face with a provided tissue. “You fainted and hit your head on the desk,” Castiel told him as he drank, taking the reddened tissue and tossing it in the trashcan. “Do you have a history of that?”

“Not normally,” he shook his head, still a bit woozy. “How long was I out?”

“Maybe five minutes. I moved you here so you wouldn't injure yourself further.” Castiel thumbed over the cut, Dean hissing at the sudden flare of pain. _That_ would be a bruise. “Are you feeling alright?”

He downed the remainder of his water, setting the cup to the side. “I’m just tired,” he lied through his teeth. “I didn’t sleep much last night, I guess.”

Whether Castiel believed him or not, he didn't speak otherwise. “If… I’m doing something that you don’t like, please tell me. I don’t want you to pass out every time I touch you.”

“It’s not that, Cas, man,” he deflated, pulling a weak knee to his chest, the other pulled underneath him. “I’ve just been… thinking a lot. These last few days, I’ve been revisiting parts of my past I don’t wanna remember. And you just… You touch me like you _know_ me, it’s…”

“You’re scared.” Dean nodded minutely, pulling his knee closer and wrapping his arms around his ankle, linking them together. “You’re scared because it’s new to you. It’s not part of your routine. I’ve taken you out of your comfort zone.” Castiel made a move to stand.

With an action akin to desperation, he reached out to clutch Castiel’s knee, pushing his leg back down. “Stay. Just…” Great, how was he going to explain _this_ one? “I don’t know what _this_ —,” he made a vague gesture to the two of them, “—means. I’m having a hard time believing that you’re _real_ , for one,” he ended with a disbelieving chuckle, rubbing a hand over his temple. _Ow_. “No one’s ever _touched_ me like that, either. Like you do, I mean. I just—.” What were words? He had no control over his mouth –if he didn't control himself soon, he would end up spewing _feelings_. He didn't want to venture into that new territory. When had anyone ever sat him down and asked him how he _felt_ , anyway?

“I won’t lie to you, Dean.” Castiel, with caution, touched his fingers over the palm of Dean’s hand, thumb swiping near his own. It felt _weird_ , to say the least. “From the moment I saw you, I knew what I felt wasn’t entirely platonic. Neither were my intentions.” Part of him wanted to continue this conversation while the other half wondered what in the _world_ was going on. They were actually going to _talk_ about this? “But, you’re not just a pretty face. You wear your heart on your sleeve, you have _genuine_ talent, but you’re afraid to express who you really are. That sound right?”

“Y-Yeah that’s,” he brought his tongue to wet his lips, the action attracting Castiel’s immediate attention. “That’s pretty much it.” Because there was no way he could deny it anymore. This man really _did_ have him down pat. No use in lying. “So what’s your _real_ plan, then?” he questioned, struggling to keep reined in the surfacing anger. Because what _was_ his motivation? “What, thought I looked nice so you just up and whisked me away to _Georgia_?”

“ _No_.” Castiel’s tone was nearly a bark, scolding in its very nature. Dean felt a shiver run down his spine –great, now he _pissed him off_. “I mean what I say, and I say what I mean. I meant it when I said you have talent. And I want to help you with that. If you’ll _let_ me. If not, you’re allowed to leave at any time. I won’t stop you.

“But, I’d prefer it if you stayed. I like you, Dean. Probably more than I should.”

 _Wow, way to make a guy feel like a dick_. Scrubbing a hand down his face, Dean turned his eyes to the floor between them; only then did he realize he was still practically holding the man’s _hand_. He was warm against his palm, more so than normal. Sweating, maybe –was he nervous? From the look in his eyes, he was _terrified_. And Dean didn't have the heart to leave him. Not now, and maybe not ever. “Look, I’ll stay if you keep to your promise. I’ll even be your errand boy! But the second you _forget_ that, I’m out. Capiche?”

Castiel’s lips quirked in just the slightest movement, the grip on his hand tightening. He took it as a promise. Unspoken, but it meant all the same.

 

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_Want a little more right, and a little less left_   
_Little more right now, a little less what's next_   
_Act like tomorrow's ten years away_   
_And just kick back and let the feelin' flow_   
_-“Smoke a Little Smoke”_

 

The class, as he found out the next morning, _was_ a Jazz class –a history of, really. Which was confusing in the first place –what was a _Country_ musician doing teaching a class of sixty-odd people about the difference between hard bop and whatever the _fuck_ free jazz was. Part of him was glad he wasn't alone in his collective terror; a few of the students closer to the front shared in his bewilderment. And Castiel, ever the stoic, never batted an eye at the video playing on the projector.

Two hours was too long for this class –or _any_ , for that matter. How could anyone sit there for that long without their ass going numb? Sure he gave a ten-minute break, but that wasn't enough to get the feeling back when he walked to the front to ask him how he was doing, and how he had the _stamina_ to stand up there for that long. Both of which earned lewd responses that had him _begging_ for him to stop talking like that in _public_ , of all places. Someone near the right side of the room thought it was _hilarious_.

After another numbing hour of observance, Castiel ended the session by accepting hard copies of papers, and reminded the student body to turn in an online version by midnight, or he wouldn't grade them at all. Harsh, but understandable, since the due date had been posted for two weeks, so he said. As soon as majority if the students had left and vacated the front desk, Dean maneuvered his way down the rows to stand at his back, bringing his arms around the professor’s waist. “Y’did great,” Dean mumbled and placed a kiss behind his ear.

“You were asleep for half of it,” Castiel commented with a chuckle, continuing to straighten up the stack of assignments on the desk. Dean didn't bother to make a comeback, settling for watching him shove the papers, now in a manila folder, into the briefcase he was nearly inseparable from in public. And he nearly _jumped_ when Castiel turned in the circle of his arms and grabbed a handful of his ass, grinding their hips together. Now _that_ was different. “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday,” he whispered close to his ear; he could have _sworn_ his voice dropped an octave.

“Yeah?” Because when was that ever _not_ going to be hot? Coming from him especially. “What’s that?”

“Another professor’s going to be here in five minutes, and I have to go back to my office.” He ended his sentence with a wry smirk, fingers kneading harder, teasing his crack through his jeans; Dean yelped. “I’d like to see you on your knees sucking me off. Or, I can bend you over and take you. Whichever you would prefer.”

Dean hummed to himself, mocking thinking –Castiel probably already knew what his answer would be, judging by the lingering gaze he kept casting to his lips. “I think that can be _arranged_ ,” he murmured in reply, grinding back against him. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“You talk a lot, you know that?” Castiel pecked his lips. “Let’s put that mouth to good use.”

 

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_Meanwhile I need to be back with her yesterday_   
_Clock in this town don't seem to care_   
_I'm finding fast this God forsaken place_   
_Is at least two weeks from everywhere_   
_-“Where She Told Me to Go”_

 

How they even made it back to Castiel’s office without setting off any alarm bells was a feat in itself – he deserved a gold fucking _medal_ for his patience. The faculty offices were across campus, nearly a ten-minute walk, during which the pair strived with every fiber of their being to hide their anticipation. It wasn't like they hadn’t done this before, it was just the thrill of it. The idea that he was about to do something in a place _other_ than a cheap motel room or in someone’s home. No, this was pretty much one of every young girls pornographic fantasies come to life. And he was _in it_.

Maybe it was just residual thinking from their conversation the day prior that had his mouth practically watering at the idea, but he was sure if anyone else had proposed the idea, he would’ve declined. Things were different with Castiel –he legitimately _liked_ the guy and his blunt observations and his overly studious lifestyle. But it ran deeper than that –what the connotations of their entire arrangement were, he would consider at a later date. Everything about it struck him in all the wrong ways –but he wanted it all the same.

He felt like Castiel wouldn't toss him away like all the others had. That was what it came down to. They needed each other –they needed to feel wanted, like they could make their lives _work_. And if they could accomplish just that, then things would be fine. Right?

Now wasn't the time for contemplating life decisions –not when Castiel was shoving him into his office once they were out of the sightline of other passing professors, locking the door behind them and shutting the one set of blinds looking out into the hall. “My office hours start in thirty minutes,” he mentioned offhandedly and walked around his desk, sitting near the edge of his seat. “You think you can do it in time?”

Dean followed and dropped to his knees, hands splayed on the man’s knees to run up his thighs. “Way to make me feel like a cheap lay, Cas.”

The comment wasn’t meant as an insult; it came out more humorous than anything, but Castiel didn't see it that way. “Hey,” he murmured, hand gently taking Dean’s chin, a thumb stroking his cheek absently. “That’s not what you are. You know that.”

Suppressing another rush of heat to his face, Dean turned his eyes to the floor. “I know.”

They refused to speak for the succeeding minutes, the only form of vocalizations being that of Dean’s breathy little pants as he undid Castiel’s fly with his teeth, mouthing his half hard cock through his briefs. He locked their gazes, his on the edge of mischievous, Castiel’s a side of lust blown he had never seen. Black eclipsed blue –he wanted this. Hell, _he_ wanted this.

He wasted no time getting to work, figuring neither was in the general mood to bullshit around; they were on the clock. Nothing like putting the pressure on. With skilled hands he peeled down his underwear enough to free his cock and swallow him down in one go. If he didn't have a mouthful of dick, he would’ve _laughed_ at Castiel’s indignant _yelp_. It probably wasn't the smoothest thing to do in his arsenal, but it worked.

And Castiel _certainly_ wasn't complaining. Dean reveled in the slightest of twitches of hips, the obscenely wet noises emanating from every upstroke echoing throughout the room. What he couldn't fit into his mouth, he stroked with his hand, his other pressing along his inner thigh, feeling the man nearly _writhe_ under his touch.

Castiel wasn’t the most _vocal_ person when it came to being on the receiving end, he noticed. Normally his partners were louder, more into it. But what he lacked in sound, he made up for in touch and expression –Dean had half the mind to pull off and kiss those impossibly soft lips until he broke under his hold. That wouldn't be for today, maybe another day down the road. This was more for Castiel than himself; he could take care of his own needs later. Maybe he _should’ve_ taken him up on pinning him to the desk.

Unfortunately Castiel felt it was convenient to put his thought into the mix via the toe of his shoe rubbing against the straining bulge in his jeans. He nearly choked on a whimper –there was no use ignoring it _now_ , not if he was going to keep _that_ up. “You’re good at this,” Castiel commented, petting his hair. Every tug he received in return, along with the careful ministrations, drew a muffled groan from his throat; Castiel nearly kicked his _spine_ as he moaned around him. “Where d-do you want me too—.”

“On my face,” Dean pulled off with a slick pop and a smirk. Castiel looked absolutely _ruined_ above him, teeth worrying his lower lip red, free hand white knuckling the chair arm, practically _gasping_ for air –Dean loved it. Loved seeing him like that, because of him. He teased the head mercilessly with his tongue, licking a wet stripe from base to tip before sucking him back down and taking him to the back of his throat. Rinse, repeat –the man nearly _howled_ with his orgasm, Dean pulling off after a belated lick in time to feel warmth splash across his eye and down his cheek, a few drops gracing his lips.

Holy _shit_. It took another few moments before Castiel finished shaking, the remnants of his orgasm wracking his body; Dean motioned himself to straddle his lap, hands caressing his face. Castiel opened his eyes to him; Dean smirked. “How’d you like that?” he mused, wiggling his hips at the feel of the professor’s hands on him.

“Very much,” Castiel mused with a grin. He licked clean the cum from his eye and Dean blushed at the gesture, adding, “Want me to—.”

If someone hadn’t decided to knock on the _door_ , he would’ve answered that question as enthusiastically as possible. Instead, Castiel ordered him to get under the _desk_ –like that would solve anything—and wait for him to give the all clear. He grabbed a few tissues and wiped his face clean along the way while Castiel busied himself with tucking himself back into his slacks. Dean watched from the small slit near the floor.

Turning the latch, Castiel opened the door. An eerily familiar voice sounded through the small face; his heart _stopped_. He _knew_ that voice. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Evans, but can you tell me where Professor Milton’s office is?”

“She’s on the next floor, room 410. I believe she’s waiting for you, Sam, is it?”

His heart sank –this wasn’t _happening_. “Yeah, yeah. I’m working for her daughter, did she tell you?”

“She mentioned her lawyer would be coming to the office today, but I wasn’t aware of what for. I suppose you’re not allowed to tell me why, either?” There was amusement in his voice.

He didn't even have to _look_ to know Sam was probably smiling his ass off. “Nah, it’s in the contract. Pretty high profile though, you haven’t seen it on the news?”

“I don’t watch much television.” Castiel’s shrug was assumed. “But, good luck with the proceedings. I’m sure you’ll win, just like the last case.”

“Thanks, Mr. Evans!”

And Castiel shut the door after his departure –Dean _bolted_ from under the desk, knuckles white against the wood, _fuming_. “You know _Sam_?” he huffed. Nothing could be done to still his erratic heart rhythm. It didn't make sense –he was in _Georgia_ , and his brother just _happens_ to show up halfway across the country in the same exact town, building, _airspace_?

Castiel cocked his head in bewilderment. “He works for my cousin’s law firm in San Francisco. How do _you_ know him?”

“He’s my brother!”

Pure exasperation. “…Sam Winchester is your _brother_?”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

_Now I'm singin', "Get me out of here"_   
_I see the preacher's eyes as my daughter cries_   
_And they strap me in this chair_   
_Lord, I hope she forgives me for leavin' her this way_   
_Tonight I ride the lightning to my final restin' place_   
_-“Lightning”_

 

Dean didn't speak to him for the remainder of the day; dinner eclipsed awkward silence and moved into the most uncomfortable situation he had ever been forced into. Given his choice, he would’ve locked himself in the guest bedroom and not come out for three days. That was how he dealt with his problems, repressing them until they didn't exist, most of the time in complete silence. But Castiel wouldn't leave him a moment’s peace –understandable, since they were living under the same roof and shared the same space most of the day.

Secluding himself in the basement started off as a good idea, until he realized he forgot his guitar on the second floor. And there was _no_ way he was going back upstairs to get it. He settled for tuning the Dobro sitting in the corner, condition a bit worse for wear. From the looks of it, it was most likely a project forgotten about. But once he got the strings in the right alignment, it played like a dream.

He lost himself in the chords in the small room, barely noticing when his roommate joined him on the floor, guitjo in hand. “Do you want to t—.”

“Dude, no,” Dean brushed him off and removed the pick from between his teeth. “Right now, no. You know how t’play ‘ _Lightning_ ’ on that?”

“I haven’t tried, but I assume the fingerings are the same.” He strummed the first few bars to prove his point, the sound conflicting but familiar. “Not many professional musicians play these. It’s mostly found in older country, not so much today.” A pause. “De—.”

“ _Humor_ me, Cas. Just play?”

They did, Dean leading off with Castiel trailing in near the chorus. If his mood weren’t so sour, he would’ve fully appreciated the moment and just _who_ he was playing with, whom he was _singing_ with. Castiel never once stopped him the further they progressed, even with the occasional crack of his voice during the multitude of choruses –emotion never settled well with him. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to do this while everything was riding high. But it was cathartic, being able to express himself without having to speak to anyone, just to himself and his participatory audience of one.

There, he felt like he was doing something _right_.

He lost himself in it; by the time he finished, he hadn’t even noticed Castiel had _stopped_ and just settled on watching him, chin in his hands, instrument laid across his lap. He didn't know whether his expression was good or bad. “You should sing like that,” Castiel commented and straightened his back. “You sound better now than when I first heard you. It may just be the song, _but_ if you emulate that while putting your own style into it, you could definitely go somewhere.”

It meant more coming from _him_ than it did anyone else. Still, he was weary to accept the praise. He lowered his head to his lap, setting the guitar aside. “He’s supposed to be in Cali-fuckin’-fornia doing God knows what with all his pals. Not here. Not walking into my life again! And yeah, he don’t know I’m here, but he will. The longer I stay with you, it won’t take long for him to find out.”

“Are you implying you want to leave?” Castiel was scowling, lips pressed in a narrow line. “I may not know you as well as I’d like, but you can’t _possibly_ think you two wouldn't see each other again someday. He doesn’t know you’re _here_ , Dean. It’s been six years. What is _your_ issue?”

“What’s _my_ issue?” Something inside of him snapped at the final question; he had to clasp his hands to his ankles just to keep himself from reaching across and _strangling_ the guy. But that was the question –why was he so upset in the first place? Rationalizing his reaction was more problematic than trying to speak it aloud. “My _issue_ is…” He swallowed around the obstruction in his throat. “…He always had his life together. I was stuck looking out for the snot-nosed little shit all my life, never got a second to myself cause it was always, ‘Look out for Sammy, Dean.’ He’s smart as _fuck_. Scholarships out the ass, schools recruiting him all over the country.

“And first chance he gets, he fucks off and leaves me on my ass, and what was I supposed to do, huh? All I got is a GED, a couple bucks to my name and this guitar. And look at him, in his… tailored suit and fancy job. Got his life together, got that degree he always wanted. Where am I, Cas?” He beat a fist over his heart, expression hard. “Where the _fuck_ am I?”

“You’re doing what you love, as well.” His tone was ever bland, but behind that was a sense of determination. He was trying to make him _believe_ the words. Dean chose not to. “The circumstances may be different, but you’re pursuing your dream. He’s happy. You’re happy. Why are you so _insistent_ on depriving yourself of that?”

“Because I don’t deserve it.” Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose and crossed his arms. “I’m no good at what I do. And I don’t see what _you_ see in me. I mean… He’s better than I am, Cas. You’ve seen him!”

“What he’s accomplished doesn’t have anything to do with how you live your life.” Dean _stared_. “You shouldn’t let others dictate your actions for you.”

He shook his head. “Preachin’ to the choir.”

“ _Dean_. _Listen_ to me.” He did, only because he feared Castiel would slap him into next week if he didn't. Or beat him over the head with one of the many instruments on the walls. Either one. “You do what _you_ want. But you have to accept your brother for doing what _he_ wants, too. He’s living his life, just as you are yours. You have to let him _go_ , Dean.”

“…Then what am I supposed to do?” He was aware that his lower lip was beginning to twitch; he bit it before his insecurity bled through. That was the _last_ thing he needed. “He’s all I got _left_.”

Castiel took his hand, bringing his fingers to his lips for a brief kiss. “You have me. If you’ll let me.”

Dean yanked his hand back and moved to stand. He couldn't stand it, the _affection_ the man freely gave. He didn't deserve it. He never did, never would. “I’m leaving,” he announced to the room, treading the carpeted floor. Castiel called his name; at the door, he hung his head. “Don’t… say my name. You make it sound like it means something.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

_You're my refuge from the road, A safe place to go_   
_When I'm out here livin' on this ledge and when I'm circlin' the drain_   
_You keep my crazy sane and quiet all the voices in my head_   
_-“You Make it Look So Easy”_

 

He didn't make it very far before the bottom fell out of the sky, rain pelting his skin endlessly, soaking through his clothes. Admittedly it wasn't the best idea to leave when the clouds were gathering on the horizon, but he had to. He couldn't be under the same roof any longer; he needed to clear his head. Sitting on a bus stop bench nearly a mile from Castiel’s home, he regretted not grabbing his wallet or belongings before heading out the door. In a way, he was leaving his entire _identity_ behind, if he followed through. If the next bus came, he’d be on it and out of everyone’s hair. Destination, he didn't care.

None of the passing cars or pedestrians with their umbrellas offered him a passing glance. The only one who remotely cared was a small girl, hand in hand with her mother. She offered a small smile; he wished he could return it. Hands covering the back of his head, Dean stared down at the rain-soaked sidewalk, paying no mind to the slowly dissipating traffic on the street. Rush hour was long over; the last he checked, it was nearly seven. That was three hours ago; the streetlamps flickered on, illuminating his despair for the world to see, the persistent storm echoing the torment he felt inside.

The wind picked up ever so slightly; he sighed, paying it no mind.

It was another few minutes after the latest clap of thunder before he felt the presence of someone in his vicinity, seating itself in the spot beside him. “You’ll catch a cold if you stay out here for much longer,” the person spoke. “It took me two hours to find you.”

“You weren’t supposed to go looking for me,” Dean huffed, voice nearly drowned out by the storm. Leave it to _Cas_ to walk in the rain looking for his _sorry_ ass. “Why don’t you just let me go? I’m giving you the chance, just take it. This was never gonna work out, ‘nyway.”

“It’s not working because you don’t want it to.” Looking up through rain-soaked lashes, Castiel was looking at a shop across the road, t-shirt soaked, pants barely clinging to his frame from the weight. He wasn’t wearing shoes; his feet were probably bleeding. _Shit_. “What are you so afraid of?”

In the next second, Dean found himself looking _down_ at Castiel, the man squatting before him, hands on his knees. He was aware he should _probably_ answer, but what was there to say? That he was terrified of the concept of someone actually liking him for _him_? Because he was _pretty_ sure that Castiel did. His obvious affection was the proverbial elephant in the room, except bigger, more encompassing. More absolute.

Was it possible to fall in love in less than a week?

And as if he sensed the impending breakdown, Castiel stood and brought him into an awkward embrace, Dean’s face pressed into his stomach, arms around his waist while Castiel ran his fingers through his rain soaked hair.  “’M sorry,” Dean said into the wet fabric of the man’s shirt, clinging to it like a lifeline. Because he was –Castiel didn't deserve to have his personal issues shoved on him, not when he had his own life, his own career. He didn't deserve to put up with the broken man in his arms.

Yet, he was trying. He had to give the man credit, he was trying his _damndest_ to understand what was going on in his head. And he wasn't going to stop any time soon. “Come home,” Castiel called to him, tilting him up by his chin. “Come home with me.”

A mixture of rain and his own tears streamed endlessly down his face; whether Castiel knew or not, he didn't say a word. “Okay. At least,” breaking from the hold temporarily, he leant down to untie his tennis shoes –they were probably the same size anyway—“wear some shoes. You’ll get pneumonia walking around like that.”

“I think we’re both at risk because of you,” Castiel snarked, but complied anyway. “There’s a bad storm coming. You picked a horrible time to try and leave the county.”

“Regular bad or basement bad?”

“Basement bad.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

_Now there are those who_   
_Swear that I belong in a padded room_   
_Cause I can't sleep, baby you keep_   
_Creepin' up like the light of a crescent moon_   
_-“Longer Gone”_

 

He wasn’t _kidding_ when he said the storm was _bad_. Downright horrific was what it was. Even in the basement, wrapped up in a spare blanket Castiel brought down, he could hear the wind howling and battering the trees outside, hoping every second that the roof didn't fly off. Somewhere around midnight, the power went out, leaving them in the dark to wait it out. They fell asleep arm in arm in the middle of the floor in nothing but their underwear to the sound of their shared breaths.

Mid morning, the local news stations were livid with reports of straight-line winds whipping through the Athens-Clarke County area. North towards Tennessee, several tornadoes were spotted, but none touched down for more than ten minutes. But that was enough time to change lives. One of the orange trees in the backyard snapped in half, and the next-door neighbor had a tree through their roof. Across town, an entire street was nearly demolished, along with a motel complex and a strip mall. At least four times during his first waking hour, an ambulance passed, probably headed in that area.

Somewhere around nine that morning after they braved to venture upstairs, the electricity powered back on; they watched the aftermath on the television in the guest room, sprawled out on the bed sharing intermittent kisses to whatever skin they could reach. Shoulders, fingers, lips, everything was up for grabs. Presses to the lips lasted the longest, with Dean on his back and Castiel half-draped over him, thighs pressing to clothed skin, hands pressing heatedly with no real purpose, just intent to feel.

This was _nice_ , he had to admit. All of his previous partners touched with motive, spots that got the either of them hot and bothered. This was more sensual than anything. Castiel was busy trying to suck a mark into the underside of his jaw, licking the increasingly sensitive skin after each nip while Dean buried his fingers in the tattoos coloring every square inch of his back. “I like your wings,” he remarked through a whimper, biting back a moan when he shifted to the other side of his neck to repeat the process.

Said wings were the darkest marks on his skin, spanning from between his shoulder blades to the backs of his arms, the other two sets fanned down his back, the longest of feathers tickling his lower back. They were black with blue and silver tinges. Beautiful to look at, intimidating to touch. He did so freely and without reservation, Castiel exhaling with each drag of fingers, each time he palmed his ass under his waistband.

“They were the first ones I had done,” Castiel said between kisses, moving up to suckle at the spot beneath his ear –Dean nearly melted into the bedding. “Our first album sold so well, I spent nearly a week in the shop with my share of the cash. My brothers didn't like it, but they were mine.” Hand buried in his hair, Castiel pulled enough for Dean to expose more of his neck, soft lips and tongue drawing blooming marks wherever he progressed. He was going to have a _hard_ time explaining this to anyone who asked.

Dean positively whined as he kissed along his collarbone, thigh _grinding_ between his legs. _Now_ he meant business. “You keep doin’ that, you’re gonna get me hard,” he gasped.

Dean’s back arched beneath him, Castiel smirked and tongued his nipple. “I thought that was the point.” He positioned himself to completely straddle his waist, rolling their hips together and drawing a groan from both of them. “If I suck you off, will you stay?”

He actually _laughed_. “If you suck me off, I’ll do _whatever_ you want.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” Castiel sneered.

And Dean would have been absolutely _thrilled_ at the prospect of the musician swallowing him down if it weren’t for the persistent vibration coming from the dresser across the room. Tipping his head over the end of the bed, he spotted the source. “Dude, my phone’s ringing.”

“It can’t wait?” Castiel was busying himself with lapping at the head of his dick through his briefs.

Against his better judgment, he pushed Castiel away with shaking hands. “ _No one_ calls me unless it’s important. C’mon, lemme up.”

Castiel was _pouting_ when he pulled away, Dean crawling off the bed to cross the room. He didn't recognize the number –he swore, if someone _misdialed_ , he’d personally find and beat them with a snare drum. He was palming his dick when he answered, phone pressed to his ear.

“Dean?”

And _that_ voice stopped him. “…Sammy?”

“Hey, man. It’s, uh, been a while.”

Castiel was watching him from the bed, brows furrowed tight. This was the perfect conversation to have in his underwear. “W-What’s up?”

“Listen, I know it’s probably not the smartest question, but… You wouldn’t happen to be anywhere near Georgia right now, would you?”

“I’m…” He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. Would he lie and give a false location, or actually _help_ if he needed anything? “I’m actually in Athens right now. Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, actually.” Oh, great. “A tree kinda fell in my room at the hotel last night, they took me to Saint Marys. Busted up my arm pretty good, but they say I’ll live.” He tried to end it on a humorous note –Dean’s heart was threatening to rupture. “How close are y—.”

“Enough. Where are you there?” Sam told him. “We’ll be there soon,” and he hung up.

By then, Castiel was off the bed and at his side, taking his phone from his hand. “Is he hurt?”

With a shuddering breath, he nodded. “How close is Saint Marys from here?”


	4. The Outsiders

_Sometimes it feels like my heart's got a mind of it's own_   
_And it's decided it don't wanna leave you alone_   
_-“My Heart’s Got a Memory”_

 

Castiel lived central to _everywhere_ in town, and for once he was grateful for someone having the mind to live near the city center. It took nearly ten minutes to wind through the traffic in the streets and the downed limbs to make it to the visitors parking structure, Dean nearly snapping the door handle off the Impala in his rush to get out. Castiel had to _stop_ him before he did anything rash –he grabbed hold of Dean’s bare wrists, stilling him. “Dean, he’s not going anywhere. You have to calm _down_.”

No matter the concern in those words, he still couldn't calm his heart. That was his _brother_ in there! The brother he had spent the most recent years of his life hating, only to just recently come to terms with who the guilty party _really_ was. And now he was stuck in some hospital bed because of an act of God? And he wasn’t _there_? What was he supposed to do?

Dean checked in with the front desk just to make sure he was allowed to go back to see Sam in the first place –apparently he was still in the back, suffering from a broken ulna. Castiel followed close behind as they went through the double doors towards to the triage area, many of the residents bruised or bloodied. They probably all came from the same area. No one was _dying_ as far as he could tell.

Sam was in the very back corner of the room, a nurse finishing up setting his arm for presumably a cast up to his elbow. He hadn’t changed a _bit_ –still horrendously tall, same stupid smile. Different hair, though, nearly shoulder length. If he put a fan up to him, it would probably flow. Given the chance, Dean would cut it all off. Hopefully the wound on his forehead was superficial; there was more blood than necessary dripping down the right side of his face.

Once the nurse left his side, the pair made their way over, Dean finally catching Sam’s eye. In his head, he had imagined their reunion being more…violent, someone throwing a punch, someone smashing a bottle or something of the like. But that was years ago, when they first parted. Instead, Sam stood and Dean threw his brother into a crushing hug, Sam patting his back with one hand, the broken one hanging off to the side. “Missed you,” Dean sighed, head propped up on his shoulder.

He could practically _feel_ Sam’s grin. “Missed you too.” They pulled back, Sam patting his cheek before sitting back on the makeshift bed. “So… Why’re you here?”

Good, they could start there. Avoid the awkward conversation and just get to the matter at hand. “You can blame this guy right here,” he replied and reached back for Castiel, pulling him forward by his belt loop.

The man _blushed_ , from embarrassment of being touched like that in public or just because it was _him_ , he didn't know. Either way, he made his way hurriedly to the pair, holding out a hand for Sam to shake. Dean nearly snorted at the look on Sam’s face. He couldn't imagine just what he was thinking. “Y-You’re—.”

“Please don’t call me Jimmy,” he shook his head, taking Sam’s hand. “I was surprised you didn’t recognize me when we first met.”

“Well, you used to wear glasses, for one,” Sam chuckled. “And you wear suits whenever I see you. I wasn’t expecting _that_.” He motioned a hand to the tattoos; Castiel rubbed his arms at the mention. “How’d you meet Dean?”

“He was performing in Nebraska and I brought him home with me.”

Dean blanched. “Wow, way to be subtle there, Cas.”

“Wait, you’re _performing_ now?” Sam turned his attention to Dean, who was still midway through scowling at Castiel’s smugness. “Like, you actually get gigs?”

“It’s mostly just bars,” he shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m not really good for much else.”

“Dude, you are!” It’d been a long while since he’d seen Sam’s eyes that alight. There was praise there, even after all those years. While Dean had harbored resentment for nearly a decade, Sam obviously hadn’t. He hadn’t changed at _all_. “I’ve heard you play before. There was this bar, uh… Starlight, out in San Jose. Jess and I went on a double date with her sister and you were the second one up. You left before I could find you, but Jess left you a two-hundred dollar tip when I told her you were my brother.”

Jesus _Christ_. The only reason he remembered that night was because of that tip –he could actually afford a decent _phone_ with that money. And a new change of clothes didn't hurt, either. At least now he knew who it was; for the last three years, he’d been wondering who in the _world_ would intentionally leave that kind of cash, especially for _him_ , of all people. He didn't know what to say. “Well, you tell Jess thanks.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “That night got me through some shit.”

“You can tell her yourself,” Sam stated. “We’re getting married next month, and I’d really like you to come to the wedding and sing for us. And Mr. Evans too, if he wants to go.”

His brother, his _brother_ was getting married. What else had he missed out on in six years? Graduation, making the bar, what else? It might as well have been a lifetime, and he voluntarily opted out of seeing it all. That would have to be changed. “I’d like that,” he replied, albeit with a sense of shyness. “I’m sure Cas’d wanna go too, right?”

Castiel shot him a look that he could only describe as optimistic and slightly terrified. He might as well get it out of the way –if he was going to stay with the guy, then Castiel would have to follow him wherever he went. Sure he wouldn't crisscross the country by train anymore, but maybe they could travel the state. Go to parks, events. Maybe see the Grand Canyon if they had the time. It all sounded like a horrible idea, but he was all for it. He needed this. And he decided he needed _him_.

Castiel gave his answer with a nod. “I’d love to.”

So this was it. Dean was throwing away six years of spite in exchange for a different life, and he didn't feel entirely weirded out by it. Maybe later once they got home he would, but right then, he didn't care. Feeling content wasn't new to him, but for now he could embrace it.

The same nurse from before rounded the corner and moved into their cubicle, instructing Sam to raise his arm so they could form the cast and send him on his way. More people were coming in from the city and surrounding counties –the staff were moving as fast as they could, and Dean and Castiel were probably impeding their process. No one tried to kick them out, though. “I’m actually flying out of town tomorrow, I was only in town to talk to Ms. Milton,” he spoke through pained grimaces, every once in a while shifting to make himself comfortable. “You wanna uh… Go out tonight? For old times sakes?”

Dean caught himself grinning; he didn't bother to hide it. “That sounds great, Sammy.”

 

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_Sometimes I grow weary, from goin' all the time.  
I love to take a minute, let you ease my mind._

_I'd love to see my mama, maybe go for a drive  
But I gotta play the star in some little town again tonight_

_Don't get me wrong, I love what I do_  
 _It's just another song about missing you_  
-“Carolina”

 

The sun went down notoriously late during the summer months, still hanging high in the sky by the time they made their way into one of the bars downtown, Sam’s arm in a temporary sling and Castiel at Dean’s side, walking too close to be construed as anything _but_ platonic. No one said anything about it; no one was paying attention. They practically blended into the crowd. Castiel ordered a round for the three of them and they sat at a booth a ways from the stage where a young woman sang the blues.

Once or twice during their conversation, a young man came up to Castiel and spoke something into his ear, the man waving him away once he was done. No one spoke of it until the third time –by then, Dean was feeling antsy. And he felt it had _something_ to do with the black case Castiel had insisted on carrying with him their entire walk downtown. A young girl had asked him if he was famous in the middle of Ben  & Jerry’s, and both Dean and Sam nearly burst out laughing, much to Castiel’s dismay. Even if he had said yes, she wouldn't have known who he was. Her father, either.

Dean never remembered Sam being so _chatty_ , though. But maybe he had chosen to ignore it in the past –now, he barely gave himself a chance to breathe. Apparently his girlfriend –fiancé, he had to remind himself – was named Jessica, and they had met on campus his first year and were now nearly inseparable. He popped the question six months ago, and they were expecting twins. _Twins_! How had he missed out on _that_ bombshell?

According to both him and Castiel, he was becoming one of the most prominent lawyers in California –he’d been the one to prosecute Crowley McLeod two years ago, the case that shook up the nation with its tales of scandal, murder and drug and human trafficking that brought the man’s entire firm to it’s knees. He remembered that, only because it was the only thing on the news for nearly two months. How he’d missed Sam’s name in the proceedings, he didn't know. Probably the blind rage.

Dean didn't have much to add on his part –he just traveled the nation and played whatever bar needed a musician that night. On occasion he made enough to travel to more prominent cities from Los Angeles to Portland, Maine. Sam said he admired him for it, for him following his own path, how he envied what he did; it didn't _feel_ admirable. “I’m serious, you’ve probably seen more of the States than most people do in a lifetime!”

He had to agree with that. He’d also seen the inside of more motel rooms than he could count, but he didn't know whether to count that as a plus or not. Tennessee had been his favorite, though, by far. If he remembered later, he would suggest he and Castiel head up to the Smokys for a weekend. Fall was coming. It’d be a sight to see, for sure.

They fell into a steady rhythm for an hour, just chatting up a storm and not caring if anyone else overheard. Castiel was a _lightweight_ , he found out; barely half a beer in him and he was more talkative than he’d seen of him in a week. He smiled more, too, a toothy grin that had Dean’s heart fluttering at the sight. He hoped without alcohol, he could get him to do that again. Only for him.

A sudden burst of clapping bolted him from whatever conversation they were having, along with Castiel’s foot on his ankle. They were changing sets again, and the announcer, a big bear of a man, made his way to the middle of the stage. “We’ve got ‘nother upcomin’ star tonight, and he’s come all the way from Kansas to play the stage! Y’all give a hand for _Dean Winchester_! Get on up ‘ere, man!”

If his heart rate weren’t already skyrocketing, he would’ve probably suspected a heart attack was imminent. And Castiel was _smirking_ at him, reaching beside his seat to hand over the case he was carrying. “You’re _serious_?”

“Go,” Castiel said, tone more of a suggestion than a command. “You haven’t added Athen’s to your list yet.”

Sam patted his shoulder and promptly shoved him out of the booth, case in hand. Around, the now growing crowd was applauding him, watching as he stumbled his way towards the stage. So this was happening. If Castiel had set this up, which he most likely _did_ from the looks of it, then the backup bands knew what his expertise was, right? He wouldn't be going into this alone, _right_? The pressure was on. He wasn't prepared. He couldn't do it.

But he _could_. This was who he was. Taking the stage and setting the black case on the floor, he opened it to find the Dobro he played the day before. Atop it was a note. One word – _yours_. The case masked the inevitable smile that graced his lips, but he had a feeling Castiel knew it was there. He couldn't hide that easily.

So he played from his heart, launching into ‘ _Carolina_ ’ like it was his God-given mission, and nothing in the world could stop him. He had the crowd on their feet by the end, and both Sam and Castiel beamed with pride. The latter looked positively _elated_ , lips mouthing three words he never though he’d see from anyone.

This was it.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

 _I'mma find out what that house is made of._  
 _It's been too many nights since its felt us make love._  
 _I wanna rock some sheetrock, knock some pictures off the wall._  
 _Love you baby, like a wrecking ball._  
-“Like a Wrecking Ball”

 

They got Sam to the airport around six that morning. He stayed in the guest room, because sleeping in a busted up hotel room and not having a working rental car because a tree decided to take both out? No one in their right mind would put anyone out in that situation. Explaining _why_ he slept in Castiel’s room hadn’t been the chore he was expecting, either –apparently, California rubbed off on him more than their father did. “Half of my department’s gay,” he told him, “I didn’t think it’d take _you_ that long to come out, though.” To which Dean promptly punched his shoulder.

Despite the lingering effects of the storm around town, Castiel’s class was still scheduled, and Dean spent most of his time either stuck in a daydream or watching whatever demonstration videos the professor played on the screen. At least they were done with free jazz; fusion was much more tolerable. And they got to listen to Chicago, that was a plus.

Castiel spent majority of the afternoon in his office grading assignments, on account of yesterday’s debacle and neither of them getting much sleep once they got home. Dean took the time to properly reorganize the shelves like _he_ wanted, until he was sure nothing would spontaneously fall over so none of the weird porcelain figures would break in the process. He earned a kiss to the cheek for his efforts, and Dean got to cook dinner for the first time since his arrival.

“Did you mean it?” he found himself murmuring against the skin of his neck later that night, knees pushed up towards his shoulders, Castiel fucking into him like he was the most precious thing on the planet, fit to break at any moment. And he _wanted_ to break. His hands slipped on the inked planes of Castiel’s back in attempts to gain some sort of purchase; he gave up for tangling a fist in the sheets, the other gripping the meat of his thigh, pulling the man closer than should be possible. “What you said at—the bar?”

Castiel didn't skip a beat, adjusting his angle so he could relentlessly drill into his prostate, Dean howling and throwing his head back into the sheets. “I did,” he replied, pressing his lips hastily to his collar. His rhythm was faltering. “I think I really do—.”

“Kiss me, _damn_ it, kiss me, Cas.” It was an order, and Castiel didn't fail to disappoint. Both hands fisted in dark hair, Dean held on for as long as he possibly could. His orgasm coursed slowly, closing in, leaving him a whimpering mess by the time he came untouched across his stomach and up his chest, all with his name on his lips. Castiel took full advantage and with the lewdest expression possible, he pushed Dean _hard_ into the sheets, giving a final few thrusts before joining him with a nearly silent groan.

They collapsed like that together in a fit of frantic pants, Castiel sucking whatever skin he could reach. Dean could stay like that all day with him in his reach, hell, a _lifetime_ , even. He felt safe, needed. For the first time, he had something he didn't want to let go of. Even as Castiel pulled out to roll over, Dean chased him, drawing him into his arms and willingly himself to never let go. And Castiel held him just as tightly, raking his fingers down his spine. He swallowed. “I know you probably don't feel the same—.”

“Give it time,” Dean whispered back at him, pressing their lips together. “I’ll get there. _We’ll_ get there.”

“…Thank you,” was all Castiel could say to that.

And stroking a hand through sweat-damp hair, Dean smiled –he could get used to this.


End file.
